Ulrich  Middeldorf 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 
IN  LONDON 


I 


• ^rom.  n /t/wAjpn^A  /y  rtAu*  J&uetJ,  'Ma/l,  (Sa/iny 

(^e^/tufA{/r-  /.  n /i/A  sjfiudco,  22  ^io/ihm  <^u/vre. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 
IN  LONDON 


BY 

JULIUS  M.  PRICE 

AUTHOR  OF  “MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS,”  ETC. 


WITH  32  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 

AND  PHOTOGRAVURE  FRONTISPIECE 


PHILADELPHIA 
DAVID  McKAY,  Publisher 
604-8  SOUTH  WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


In  the  passage  of  years  I have 
made  many  friends ; to  all  these 
friends  I dedicate  this  little  hook. 

J.  M.  P. 


PREFACE 


In  falling  in  with  the  suggestion  made  to  me  by 
my  publisher  that  I should  write  a further  volume 
on  my  Bohemian  days  I found  myself  confronted 
with  the  perplexing  question  as  to  when  one’s 
“ Bohemian  days  ” can  really  be  said  to  have  ended, 
for  I have  always  been  inclined  to  think  that  “ once 
a Bohemian,  always  a Bohemian.”  Of  course,  I do 
not  refer  to  the  state  of  affairs  which  is  a dreadful 
reality  to  many  a struggling  artist,  and  from  which 
through  force  of  circumstances,  there  is  no  getting 
away — to  such  the  word  is  but  a synonym  for  penury, 
and  there  can  be  little  romance  in  connection  with  it, 
in  London  at  any  rate.  There  is  another  form  of 
Bohemianism  not  associated  with  actual  poverty  that 
appeals  so  strongly  to  some  men,  that  long  after 
youth  is  passed,  and  when  they  are  in  a position  to 
live  as  ordinary  citizens,  they  still  remain  under  its 
spell.  It  might  be  termed  the  fascination  of  the  un- 
conventional, were  it  not  that  unconventionality  is 
almost  inherent,  and  is  largely  a matter  of  tem- 
perament and  climatic  influence.  My  souvenirs,  as 
will  be  seen,  relate  more  specially  to  this  phase  of 
Bohemian  life. 

In  writing  of  the  years  I spent  in  St  John’s 
Wood,  I realise  that  my  Paris  experiences  of  artistic 
Bohemianism  helped  in  no  small  degree  to  impart 

v 


PREFACE 


a sort  of  reflected  Parisian  lustre  on  my  London 
studio,  and  made  me  perhaps  take  a somewhat 
different  view  of  life  in  those  days  to  what  I should 
have  done  had  I never  lived  abroad.  It  was  not 
exactly  looking  at  things  through  rose-coloured 
glasses,  but  with  a certain  sense  of  the  romantic 
which  had  developed  in  the  Quartier  Latin  and 
Montmartre.  I lay  no  claim  to  having  discovered 
any  terra  incognita , as  I feel  sure  that  to  many  men 
of  my  age,  much  of  what  I have  described  of  the 
doings  in  the  “ Wood  ” in  the  mid  ’eighties  and  early 
’nineties,  must  have  been  to  a certain  extent  familiar, 
but  I venture  to  hope  that  my  own  personal  reminis- 
cences will  prove  of  some  interest,  if  only  as  affording 
a glimpse  of  studio  life  and  a Bohemianism  which  is 
now  but  a memory. 

This  volume  is  intended  as  a sequel  to  “ My 
Bohemian  Days  in  Paris,”  so  in  conclusion  I would 
add  in  the  words  of  a once  famous  advertisement, 
“If  you  like  the  pickles  try  the  sauce.” 

J.  M.  P. 

22  Golden  Square, 

London,  W. 


[NOTE. — The  author  had  no  opportunity  of  correcting  the 
proofs  of  this  book,  as  he  was  at  the  war  while  it  was  being 
printed . ] 


vi 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 


PAGE 

I return  to  London — Searching  for  rooms — St  John's 
Wood  in  the  ’eighties — A bed-sitting  room  in 
Wellington  Road — The  buxom  landlady — A 
tempting  offer — A mysterious  hat  and  stick — 

A little  incident  during  the  night — The  defunct 
lodger,  pathetic  episode  — In  search  of  a 
studio — Rents  in  London  as  compared  with 
Paris — I take  a furnished  studio — My  landlady 
— “ Dear  Old  Jeph  i 


CHAPTER  II 

My  first  experience  of  Bohemian  life  in  London — Of 
living  as  compared  with  Paris — The  saloon  bars 
and  the  “ shilling  ordinary  ” — The  London  char- 
woman— Her  French  prototype — My  first  com- 
mission— A lady  visitor — A delightful  afternoon 
— -Commencement  of  a little  romance — Painting 
in  my  back  garden — Sudden  ending  of  the 
romance  .......  12 


CHAPTER  III 

My  letter  of  introduction  to  Sir  Frederick  Leighton, 
P.R.A. — His  house  and  studio  in  Holland  Park 
Road — The  artistic  beauty  of  its  interior — Im- 
pressions of  my  visit — Leighton's  sympathetic 
personality — His  wonderful  charm  of  manner — 
His  linguistic  accomplishments — The  secret  of 
his  great  popularity — His  Sunday  receptions — 
Amusing  anecdote  of  a Royal  Academician — 
The  fashionable  crowd  in  the  studio  on  Show 
Sunday — Story  of  the  President  and  the  model  . 
vii 


24 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  IV 

St  John's  Wood  in  the  mid  'eighties — Curious  state 
of  things — Art  and  gallantry — The  fastest  dis- 
trict of  London — Distinguished  men  living 
there — The  artist  colony  of  St  John’s  Wood 
as  compared  with  Montmartre — The  “ Blenheim  " 

— The  “ Eyre  Arms  " — Visits  to  friends'  studios 
— An  amusing  incident — Unexpected  visitors — 

The  trick  bell-cord — A determined  guest — A 
plethora  of  jelly — Models  persistency  in  call- 
ing— Families  of  models  — Costume  models — 

Models  for  the  nude — “ Showing  " their  figure — 
Different  ways  of  undressing  of  the  French  and 
the  Italian  models — Amusing  episode  in  the 
studio — The  two  girls,  a shock  for  the  gas  in- 
spector— A novel  evening  bodice  ...  32 

CHAPTER  V 

Models  as  a class — Love  in  the  studio — An  awkward 
contretemps — An  amusing  incident — Earnings  of 
models  — The  temptation  to  go  wrong — Black 
sheep — Artists  marry  models — Jealous  wives — 

Some  amusing  incidents — Love  resuscitated — 

The  “ engaged  ” couple — Amateur  models — 
Chance  acquaintances — Some  amusing  inci- 
dents— Risks  one  ran — A11  exciting  adventure  . 45 

CHAPTER  VI 

My  good  luck  in  Marlboro’  Hill — Commissions — Por- 
traits— A beautiful  sitter — Trying  work — I fall 
in  love — Symptoms  of  the  disease — Keeping 
the  postman  busy — Top-hatted  respectability — 
Bohemianism  versus  conventionality — “ A talk 
with  papa  " — Ignominious  retreat — I go  to 
Gorleston — Painting  en  plein  air — Tender  recol- 
lections— I go  to  Paris  to  paint  portrait — La 
vie  du  Grand  Monde — Leaving  Marlboro’  Hill — 

Search  for  another  studio — 10  Blenheim  Place — 

The  “ Eyre  Arms  " and  its  habitues — The  Belsize 
Boxing  Club — The  dances  in  the  Assembly 
Rooms — The  coffee  room — The  dignified  waiter 
— The  private  bar  — Pony  Moore  — Amusing 
episode — Practical  joking  in  the  Wood — I spend 
a week-end  in  a haunted  house — The  family 
ghost — Thrilling  incident  . . . 56 

viii 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  VII  PAGE 

My  first  visit  to  the  office  of  the  Illustrated  London 
News — The  office-boy  and  my  drawing — Mr 
Mason  Jackson,  the  Art  Editor — I meet  Mr 
William  Ingram — His  encouragement  and  ac- 
ceptance of  my  drawing — A fateful  morning 
for  me — Engaging  personality  of  Mr  William 
Ingram  and  his  brother  Mr  Charles  Ingram — 

Their  remarkable  ability — Fascination  of  the 
office — A private  club — Interesting  men  there — 
Lunching  places  in  the  neighbourhood — Carr’s — 

The  Devereux — Wilkinson's  d la  mode  beef 
shop  — Illustrated  Journalism  in  those  days 
— Drawing  on  the  wood — The  art  of  the  wood 
engraver — The  “ special  artist  ” — An  amusing 
anecdote  .......  75 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Off  to  the  South  of  France  to  finish  portrait — Adven- 
ture en  route — Mentone  vid  Elysium — On  the 
Riviera — A funny  incident  on  return  journey — 

The  Frenchman  and  the  luggage — Painting  at 
the  docks,  an  episode — Curio-hunting  in  the 
Wood — Tea-parties  in  studio — A good  joke — 

The  British  workman — Re-arranging  the  draw- 
ing room — Summer  in  the  Scilly  Isles — A large 
painting  .......  83 


CHAPTER  IX 

Unconventionality  of  Bohemianism — Evening  dress 
— “ Going  to  have  a bloater  for  tea  ? ” — A 
week-end  visit  to  my  friend’s  “ cottage  ” — 

The  impromptu  fancy  dress  dinner  party — The 
denouement — Amusing  story  of  a fancy  dress 
ball — The  story  of  the  bugler  and  the  barman — 
Bacchanalian  entertainments — The  mysterious 
drink — Stories  of  Bohemianism  . . . 97 

ix 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  X 

In  Paris  again  for  the  “ Vernissage  ” — Amusing  in- 
cident on  return  journey  — Keeping  a carriage 
to  oneself — I meet  Captain  Hargreaves — The 
Mount,  Bishopstoke — Delightful  hospitality — 
His  yacht  Ianira  — A particularly  pleasing 
souvenir — I join  the  “ Artists’  ” Volunteers — 
Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  Colonel  the  South  Lon- 
don Brigade — The  grey-uniformed  regiments — 
Distinguished  men  amongst  the  officers  of  the 
corps — My  first  march  out — Easter  Review  at 
Brighton — Fun  out  with  the  girls — A practical 
joke — Easter  Monday  Field  Day — Leighton,  an 
ideal  Colonel — An  instance  of  his  indefatiga- 
bility ........ 


CHAPTER  XI 

“ Show  Sunday  " — Then  a great  event — Importance 
of  exhibiting  at  the  Royal  Academy — Not  a 
hall  mark  of  talent — Significance  of  Show  Sunday 
— The  dealers'  visits — The  social  crowd — Critics 
— What  the  artist  has  to  put  up  with — Doubtful 
praise — Success  in  art  not  judged  by  financial 
results — Show  Sunday  stories — I send  in  my 
large  picture — Sir  Frederick  Leighton’s  encour- 
agement— I have  no  luck — Not  hung  “ for  want 
of  space  ” — My  dejection — Thoughts  of  enlisting 
— My  girl  pal — A real  comforter — I gradually 
recover — Picture  purchased  by  Walker  Art 
Gallery — Katie’s  illness — Sad  ending 


CHAPTER  XII 

My  first  campaign  for  the  Illustrated  London  News — 
The  Bechuanaland  expedition — Its  origin — I see 
Mr  Ingram  and  offer  to  go  out  for  the  News — 
He  agrees — First  impressions  as  an  accredited 
representative  of  a paper — Interview  with 
Colonel  the  Hon.  Paul  Methuen — The  ist 
Mounted  Rifles,  “ Methuen's  Horse  ” — The 
recruiting  office — A bit  of  a set  back — Sir 
Charles  Warren  and  newspaper  correspondents 
— Suggestion  that  I join  “ Methuen's,”  in  dual 
capacity  as  artist  and  soldier — Mr  Ingram 
x 


PAGE 


109 


120 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

agrees — I pass  medical  examination — Sign  on 
as  trooper — Serious  reflections — Enthusiasm 
prevails — Getting  ready  to  leave  England  for  a 
year — The  departure  of  the  Pembroke  Castle 
for  South  Africa — Composition  of  the  regiment 
and  pay  of  troopers  . . . . .130 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I return  to  England  from  South  Africa — The  call  of 
the  wilds — Finding  a new  studio — 3 Blenheim 
Place — My  cousin  Harris — A sporting  arrange- 
ment— Alone  once  more — The  female  element 
again — A pleasant  adventure — My  new  friend — 

I restart  painting — The  demure  Gaiety  girl  and 
the  diaphanous  drapery — Painting  from  the 
nude — Bad  times — Living  on  the  cheap — Sen- 
tentious platitudes — The  artists'  money-lender — 
Cycling  in  those  days — The  Army  Cycling  Corps 
--Our  tricycle  — Cycling  Club  costume — The 
“ Spider,"  the  " Kangaroo  " — Ludicrous  adven- 
ture— The  new  dollar  piece — Cycling  in  France — 

Le  Portel — The  " Grosvenor  " and  Sir  Coutts 
Lindsay — " Varnishing  Day  " at  the  Royal  Aca- 
demy— The  "Private  View"  — London  hosts 
and  hostesses — Lady  Seton — Social  life — Card 
parties — Funny  experience — Result  of  a foraging 
expedition — " When  the  moon,"  etc.,  curious 
sequel  to  the  sale  of  a picture — Keeley  Halswelle 
and  the  Sketching  Club  . . . . .136 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Aventures  in  St  John's  Wood — A pleasant  meeting 
at  Marlboro'  Road  Station  — My  welcome 
visitor — Curious  incident — A charming  friend- 
ship— The  end  of  the  romance — An  unexpected 
call — Painters  idealising  their  models — " Love's 
Golden  Dream  " — My  search  for  an  ideal — The 
stage  door  of  Her  Majesty’s  Theatre — The 
understudy — I paint  the  picture — Strange  finale 
— I am  introduced  to  my  ideal — The  “ material  " 
as  against  the  " ideal  ” — The  nun  at  the  fancy 
dress  ball — She  comes  to  the  studio — The  story 
of  the  confessional  . . . . 1 57 

xi 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XV 

PAGE 

The  “ Grove  of  the  Evangelists  ” — The  “ fastest  ” 
neighbourhood  in  London — Mixture  of  the  re- 
putable and  disreputable  in  the  Wood — The 
two  classes  of  “ gay  ” women — Streets  of  par- 
ticularly ill-fame — Hanover  Gardens — Wilton 
Street — A famous  house  of  assignation — Extra- 
ordinary state  of  affairs — The  “ fast  " lodging- 
houses — Money  the  fetish  always — Extortionate 
prices — St  John’s  Wood  “ pubs  ” as  compared 
with  Montmartre  cafe's — Rural  quietude  of  cer- 
tain streets — Sequestered  gardens — Secluded 
villas — The  hansom  “ cabbies  ” — Fancy  boys — 

" Bruisers  " — The  " Judas  ” — The  “ best  boy  ” 

— Signals  to  the  “ best  boy  ” — The  stamp 
paper — Beethoven’s  symphony — Luxury  and 
sensuality — A masterpiece  of  voluptuousness 
— All  sorts  and  conditions  of  tenants — An 
awkward  embroglio — Liaisons — “ Kept  women  ” 

— Sordid  arrangements — Calf  love — Amusing 
incident— Story  of  a rich  Frenchman  and  his 
mistress — The  flashy,  fair-haired  houris  of  then 
— The  " flapper  ” of  to-day — Sunday  tea  parties 
— Drunkenness  amongst  women  . . .172 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Heavy  drinking  amongst  women  {continued)-- A terrible 
scene  in  my  studio — A midnight  visitor — A 
fortunate  interruption — My  friend  the  doctor — 
Extraordinary  denouement — Effect  of  drink  on 
different  women — A curious  incident — The  bell 
on  the  leg  of  the  table  . . . . .188 


CHAPTER  XVII 

I take  up  caricaturing — Sir  Frederick  Leighton  intro- 
duces me  to  W.  Q.  Orchardson,  R.A. — His  kindly 
reception  of  me — Difficulties  the  cartoonist  has 
to  contend  with — Human  weaknesses — Amusing 
incidents — The  Frenchman’s  tooth — The  carica- 
ture on  the  table  top — A shirt-front  souvenir — 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sketching  for  the  paper — The  " Unemployed  " 

Riots — Trafalgar  Square  on  Sunday  afternoons 
— Sir  Charles  Warren  and  the  police — Mr 
Hyndman — An  unforgettable  experience — The 
" Special  Constables  ” — I join  and  am  sworn 
in  — The  Socialists  outwitted  — Sir  Charles 
Warren’s  clever  stratagem — Funny  incident — 

* “A  perfect  lidy  ” — My  first  literary  work  for  a 
daily  paper — My  meeting  with  Mr  W.  T.  Stead 
— I go  over  to  Paris  for  the  Illustrated  and  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette  to  interview  and  sketch 
President  Carnot,  General  Boulanger,  and 
others — My  impression  of  the  President  of  the 
Republic — An  invitation  to  a reception  at  the 
Elys6e — Joke  of  my  pals — The  scene  at  the 
reception — My  interview  with  General  Boulanger 
Monsieur  de  Blowitz,  Monsieur  Eiffel,  Campbell 
Clarke,  and  Caran  d’Ache — Satisfactory  results 
of  my  Paris  visit — Mr  Stead’s  facetious  remark  197 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Artists’  rendezvous  in  the  Wood — Cheap  restaurants 
in  the  West  End — Soho  in  those  days — Pagani's 
— Pellegrini  and  the  Artists’  Room — Veglio's — 
Reggiori's,  Gatti’s — The  Monico — Its  curious 
history — The  cheapest  dinner  in  London — The 
Caf6  Royal  — Verrey's  — French  and  English 
billiards  in  Windmill  Street — Music  halls — Our 
Saturday  night’s  dissipation — “ Adventures  " 
with  the  girls — Mad  pranks — The  baked  potato 
merchant — An  amusing  joke — The  bewildered 
girls — A curious  bet — The  wealthy  waiter — 

“ The  Maiden’s  Prayer  ” — “ Regulars  " - — The 
“ street  walker  ” of  those  days — Extraordinary 
sights  in  the  West  End — An  amusing  skit — John 
Hollingshead’s  wit — Foreign  women  in  Regent 
Street — The  “ last  ” 'bus — I make  a conquest — 
Facetious  'bus-drivers — Liquid  refreshment — 

Story  of  a “ rum  and  milk  ” — Week-end  boating 
— Painting  at  Cookham — Flirtation  on  the  Bridge 
— The  boastful  Don  Juan  and  the  mysterious 
female — A splendid  “ spoof  " — A delightful  ad- 
venture— The  launch  party — Curious  denouement 
— Another  adventure — Missing  the  last  train — 

The  good  Samaritans — L’incroyable.  . 214 

xiii 


CONTENTS 


CONCLUSION 


PAGE 

Uneventful  times  in  the  studio — “ Black  and  white  ” 
artists  and  “ stock  ” drawings — My  fondness  for 
France — Le  Guilvinec — I paint  a religious  sub- 
ject— Cheapness  of  living  in  the  village — Ending 
of  my  Bohemian  days — What  brought  about 
the  change  — The  Wiggins  Expedition  to 
Northern  Siberia  — Mr  Ingram  suggests  my 
accompanying  it  as  his  “special  artist”  — Sir 
Frederick  Leighton’s  friendship — Mr  Ingram’s 
generous  policy — I start  on  my  big  journey 
through  the  Arctic  regions — Siberia,  Mongolia, 
and  China — My  eighteen  months’  absence  from 
England — I return  to  London — Enough  of 
“ roughing  it  ” for  the  time — I move  from  St 
John’s  Wood  into  the  West  End  . . . 239 


xiv 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

The  Author  ......  Frontispiece 

She  had  my  favourite  colour  hair — auburn  . . 17 

The  delightful  dwelling-place  of  a very  erudite  and 

sympathetic  artist  ......  26 

— his  splendid  moustache  and  his  martial  bearing  . 35 

Shabby  individuals  of  uncertain  age,  who  looked  like 

broken-down  actors  .....  41 

Most  of  them  sat  for  the  figure  .....  42 

With  a sort  of  self-consciousness  ....  43 

Just  the  model  you  have  been  looking  for  . . 50 

The  child  was  just  what  the  artist  wanted  for  his 

picture  ........  51 

— but  nothing  would  induce  her  to  take  her  shoes 

and  stockings  off  . . . . .52 

I commenced  a sketch  of  her  in  deshabille  . . 53 

I worked  from  my  models  out  on  the  old  pier  with  the 

very  background  and  composition  I wanted  . 60 

He  was  supposed  to  be  in  love  with  her,  and  carried  out 

the  idea  so  conscientiously  ....  89 

The  very  embodiment  of  all  that  was  sweet  and  human 

and  sensible  . . . . . . .127 

The  picture  which  had  caused  me  so  much  heart- 
burning was  eventually  purchased  for  the  Walker 

Art  Gallery,  Liverpool  . . . . .128 

xv 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Leily  ......... 

The  deck  of  one  of  the  old  Woolwich  steamers  . 

Then  an  old  workhouse  man  ..... 

I got  a flower-girl  to  come  to  the  studio  . 

Was,  at  the  time,  “ at  the  Gaiety  ” ... 

So  I painted  her  as  a nymph  after  all 

Once  she  had  overcome  her  scruples 

Hung  in  the  Royal  Academy  the  following  year 

She  looked  very  beautiful  lying  back  in  a deck-chair 

“ Love's  Golden  Dream  ” 

Made  a black  and  white  drawing  of  her  as  a ballet 
girl  instead  ....... 

W.  Q.  Orchardson,  R.A.  ..... 

Sir  Charles  Warren  was  the  head  of  the  police  . 

“You  will  have  to  catch  me  as  well  as  you  can  " 
Perhaps  it  was  the  pretty  barmaid  over  there — 

A real  river  girl,  the  sort  to  make  you  fall  madly  in 
love  with  in  a few  hours  ..... 
We  were  very  great  pals  ..... 

I painted  a religious  subject  there  called  “ The 
Viatigue 


137 

140 

140 

141 

141 

142 
142 
149 
161 

170 

171 
198 
202 
212 
226 

231 

235 

240 


xvi 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 
IN  LONDON 


CHAPTER  I 


I return  to  London — Searching  for  rooms — St  John’s  Wood  in  the 
’eighties — A bed-sitting-room  in  Wellington  Road — The  buxom 
landlady — A tempting  offer — A mysterious  hat  and  stick — A little 
incident  during  the  night — The  defunct  lodger,  pathetic  episode — 
In  search  of  a studio — Rents  in  London  as  compared  with  Paris — 
I take  a furnished  studio — My  landlord — “ Dear  old  Jeph.” 


It  was  with  mingled  feelings  of  regret  and  trepida- 
tion that  I returned  to  London  after  the  four  never- 
to-be-forgotten  years  I had  spent  as  a student  in 
Paris,  for  I realised  that  my  boisterous  days  of 
youthful  insouciance  were  over,  and  that  arduous 
uphill  work  was  facing  me.  Henceforth  I had  to 
pull  myself  together  and  rely  entirely  on  my  own 
efforts  to  carve  out  for  myself  a career  in  the  pre- 
carious profession  I had  chosen.  The  situation  I had 
to  face  was  to  me  almost  tragic,  the  small  income 
on  which  I had  hitherto  depended  for  daily  bread 
and  butter,  and  an  occasional  pot  of  jam,  had  been 
snatched  away  from  me  through  a financial  failure, 
and  I found  myself  practically  on  my  beam-ends 
with  no  option  but  to  start  out  at  once  and  work 
for  my  living. 

The  seriousness  of  this  will  be  only  appreciated 

i A 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


by  those,  who  like  myself,  through  no  fault  of 
their  own,  have  found  themselves  in  similar  circum- 
stances. The  question  now  was,  what  was  to  be 
done  and  how  to  begin?  I was  little  more  than  a 
youth,  and  had  been  brought  up  with  the  idea  that 
I should  never  have  to  depend  on  my  art  for  a liveli- 
hood ; young  as  I was  I had  already  learned  that, 
as  a profession,  art  was  not  a money  - maker  to  be 
relied  upon.  I knew  from  what  I had  seen  in  Paris 
that  it  was  a lottery  in  which  the  prizes  are  few  and 
the  blanks  many.  It  was  too  late,  however,  for  me 
to  think  of  taking  up  one  of  the  many  trades  or 
professions  which  might  offer  more  lucrative  promise. 
I had  no  inclination  for  any  other  than  an  artistic 
career ; nought  remained,  therefore,  but  to  make  the 
best  of  things  and  put  my  back  to  the  wall. 

Before  leaving  Paris,  in  order  to  avoid  expense  of 
packing,  I had  decided  to  sell  my  modest  furniture 
and  household  goods,  though  I must  admit  that  it 
was  not  without  an  acute  pang  of  regret  that  I 
was  forced  to  come  to  this  decision,  and  when  I 
saw  everything  being  taken  away  it  was  almost 
like  parting  with  old  friends,  and  I felt  a choking 
feeling  in  my  throat.  What  stories  of  tender 
romance,  of  heart-burnings,  of  joys  and  sorrows 
these  insignificant  Lares  and  Penates  could  have 
told ; the  poor  little  fauteails  seemed  as  though 
holding  out  their  arms  to  me  in  mute  adieu  — 
all  were  associated  with  my  innermost  recollection 
of  all  the  romance  in  my  student  days,  alas ! now 
over.  It  was  useless  repining,  so  I stiffened  my 
back  and  endeavoured  to  persuade  myself,  much 
against  my  own  conviction,  that  it  was  Kismet, 
and  always  for  the  best. 

I arrived  in  London,  therefore,  with  absolutely  no 
belongings  ; with  no  souvenirs  of  my  Paris  life  beyond 
my  personal  effects,  my  paint-box,  sketch  easel,  camp 
stool,  and  a big  bundle  of  canvases.  I certainly 
could  not,  therefore,  under  any  circumstances,  have 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


been  considered  a possessor  of  worldly  goods  and 
chattels. 

Everything  seemed  very  strange  and  cheerless  to 
me  at  first  I remember,  as  I had  no  home  to  go  to, 
and  but  few  relations  or  friends  in  London,  so  I 
felt  almost  like  a traveller  in  some  foreign  city  ; 
but  I had  made  up  my  mind  that  there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost,  and  I was  in  a feverish  hurry  to 
make  a start.  The  day  after  my  arrival  then  saw 
me  searching  for  rooms.  I had  been  recommended 
to  look  round  St  John’s  Wood  as  being  a most 
likely  place  to  suit  me  and  my  exiguous  purse,  so 
I decided  not  to  be  fastidious,  and  settle  on  any- 
thing so  long  as  it  was  clean,  and  at  any  rate 
make  a beginning. 

In  the  ’eighties  St  John’s  Wood  was  the  quarter 
most  favoured  by  artists,  and  although  this  explained 
to  a certain  extent  how  I found  my  way  up  there,  I 
cannot  help  feeling  now  that  it  was  also  the  peculiar 
notoriety  of  the  district  that  attracted  me.  There  was 
in  those  days  an  eclat  about  the  very  name  that 
raised  visions  of  a repetition  in  London  of  the 
joyous  times  I had  spent  in  Paris,  and  I must  con- 
fess now,  that  as  a substitute  for  the  Montmartre  of 
my  student  days,  I found  St  John’s  Wood  in  the 
’eighties  not  altogether  out  of  the  running.  Of 
course  it  was  but  a quiet  suburb,  and  had  none  of 
the  life  or  go  of  the  French  Quartier,  but  there 
was,  as  will  be  seen,  plenty  of  fun  and  adventure 
there  for  those  who  were  so  minded,  whilst  as  a 
place  for  work  it  was  positively  delightful  in  its 
almost  rural  quietude. 

I found  a nice  bed-sitting-room  on  the  second 
floor  in  Wellington  Road  in  a small  semi-detached 
house,  with  a garden  back  and  front,  for  which  I 
paid  the  modest  sum  of  ios.  a week,  including  my 
breakfast,  and  an  ample  one  at  that ; cheap  enough 
in  all  conscience  sake,  but  there  was  a somewhat 
curious  little  incident  that  perhaps  explained  how 

3 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I came  to  be  thus  favoured,  for  Wellington  Road 
was  not  usually  so  inexpensive  in  the  way  of 
lodgings. 

When  I went  to  make  enquiries  about  the  room 
to  let,  the  door  was  opened  by  the  landlady 
herself,  a buxom  fair -haired  person  of  uncertain 
age,  g°t  UP  “lamb  fashion.”  She  had  a certain 
flirtatious  look,  and  gave  me  an  unmistakable  “St 
John’s  Wood  glad-eye,”  as  she  invited  me  in  to  see 
the  room,  which  as  it  turned  out  suited  me  very 
well.  It  was  the  only  one  she  let,  so  she  told  me, 
as  she  was  a widow,  and  could  not  afford  to  keep 
servants  ; but  the  rent  of  it  was  1 5s.  a week,  and 
was  more  than  I wanted  to  give,  and  I told  her 
so.  She  seemed  disappointed  rather  than  annoyed 
when  she  learned  this. 

To  my  surprise,  as  I was  going  downstairs  she 
suddenly  said  that  she  would  reduce  it  to  10s.  if 
I would  take  it  at  once,  as  she  felt  she  was  sure 
she  would  like  to  have  me  as  her  lodger,  and 
then  to  my  still  further  surprise  she  added,  “that 
will  of  course  include  your  breakfast  as  well” 
This  was  too  tempting  an  offer  to  refuse,  so  I 
accepted  without  hesitation.  I was  young  then, 
and  perhaps  somewhat  dense  at  times,  anyhow 
I arranged  to  move  in  that  day.  As  I was 
passing  through  the  hall  I noticed  a man’s  hat 
hanging  on  the  hat-stand  with  a very  truculent 
looking  stick  near  it.  Somehow  I did  not  like  the 
look  of  them,  they  had  an  aggressive  air ; the 
owner  I thought  could  not  be  an  agreeable  sort  of 
gentleman.  However,  I wasn’t  obliged  to  know  him, 
so  it  didn’t  really  matter,  so  I said  nothing,  but  it 
struck  me  as  somewhat  strange  to  see  them  as 
though  quite  in  their  accustomed  place  after  what 
she  had  told  me  about  herself.  Well,  I moved  in 
and  found  my  room  very  clean  and  comfortable, 
and  forgot  all  about  the  hat  and  stick  for  the 
moment. 


4 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I was  busy  the  next  week  or  so  hunting  for  a 
cheap  studio,  and  was  out  most  of  the  time,  so  had 
not  much  opportunity  for  chatting  with  her,  much 
as  she  would  have  liked  me  to,  as  I could  not  fail 
to  notice,  for  she  was  a most  loquacious  and  skittish 
person,  and  seemed  to  be  always  on  the  slightest 
excuse  waiting  to  pounce  out  on  me  whenever  I 
came  in  at  any  time,  even  late  at  night.  As  I went 
up  to  my  room  she  would  open  the  door  of  her 
bedroom,  and  peeping  out  coyly,  ask  me  kindly  if 
I had  all  I required.  At  times  almost  whispering 
tenderly  that  I must  not  mind  asking  her  for  any- 
thing I fancied,  as  she  wanted  me  to  be  quite  happy 
and  feel  myself  at  home. 

I often  think  of  a glimpse  I got  of  her  on  one 
of  these  occasions.  The  light  of  the  candle  I was 
carrying  lit  up  her  face  with  startling  effect  as 
she  stood  in  the  half-open  door  of  her  bedroom, 
arrayed  in  a flimsy  sort  of  dressing-gown  which 
only  partially  hid  her  ample  figure.  To  my 

youthful  eyes,  fresh  from  Paris,  and  with  the 
recollections  still  vivid  in  my  memory  of  my 
delightfully  young  and  piquant  petites  amies , this 
middle-aged  passee  individual,  old  enough  to  be  my 
mother,  with  her  dyed  hair,  pasty  face,  and  sickly 
provocative  leer  was  as  a sort  of  vision  of  another 
world,  which  was  new  to  me,  and  I hastily  thanked 
her,  and  felt  relieved  when  I found  myself  in  my 
room,  and  with  the  door  bolted.  I remember  I 
almost  felt  afraid  she  would  come  after  me  and 
try  to  get  in. 

The  next  morning  she  laughingly  twitted  me 
about  coming  in  so  late,  and  said  that  I had  no 
doubt  learned  some  bad  habits  in  Paris,  which  by 
all  accounts  was  a very  “ naughty  place  ” — not 
that  she  minded  what  people  did  if  they  chose 
to  — and,  in  fact,  she  rather  approved  of  youth 
having  its  fling,  she  added  significantly.  I did  not 
feel  inclined  to  discuss  the  subject  with  her,  but 

5 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


she  was  quite  a character  in  her  way,  and  it  was 
most  difficult  to  stop  her  talking  once  she  started. 
Still,  I could  have  forgiven  her  a good  deal,  for 
she  was  a kindly  motherly  person  once  she  forgot 
her  aspirations  to  be  considered  a young  and 
beautiful  girl. 

One  morning  whilst  I was  having  breakfast,  which 
by  the  way  she  let  me  have  in  her  own  sitting-room, 

I asked  casually  about  her  other  lodger — that  I had 
not  seen  anything  of  him.  “ Her  other  lodger ! ” she 
exclaimed  with  surprise.  “ What  other  lodger  ? ” 

“ The  one  whose  hat  and  stick  are  in  the  hall.” 

Then  to  my  intense  surprise  she  suddenly  burst 
into  tears,  and  letting  herself  drop  into  an  arm- 
chair by  the  fire  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  sobbed  hysterically.  I was  so  taken  aback 
that  I did  not  know  what  to  say ; all  that  I 
could  do  was  to  assure  her  as  sympathetically  as 
I could  that  I was  very  sorry  indeed  if  I had  said 
anything  to  upset  her — that  it  was  quite  uninten- 
tional on  my  part,  and  so  forth — and  then  I sat  and 
waited  until  the  crisis  passed. 

In  a few  minutes  she  became  calm  again,  and 
smiled  sadly  at  me  through  her  tear-dimmed  eyes. 
I shall  never  forget  what  she  looked  like.  She  was 
not  beautiful  at  any  time  of  the  day,  and  in  the 
early  morning  least  of  all,  and  moreover  she  had 
a fancy  for  an  excessive  amount  of  a peculiarly 
white  face  powder,  so  the  effect  of  her  tears  on 
this  pastel-like  surface  may  be  imagined ; they  had 
formed  little  lines  all  over  her  cheeks.  I should 
have  laughed  outright  had  it  not  been  that  1 
realised  her  grief  was  quite  real  and  unassumed. 

“You  must  forgive  me  making  such  a show  of 
myself;  I know  it’s  very  silly  of  me,”  she  said,  as 
she  mopped  her  streaming  eyes  again  and  again 
with  her  wet  handkerchief;  “but  I could  not  help  it 
— I feel  so  lonely  and  miserable  at  times.  That 
was  his  hat  and  stick,  the  poor  old  dear,  just  as 

6 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


he  left  them  before  he  was  taken  ill — he  has  been 
dead  ten  years  now,  and  I haven’t  the  heart  to 
move  them.  I feel  somehow  as  though  he  is  still 
about  the  house  when  I see  them  out  in  the  hall 
in  their  old  place,  and  sometimes  when  I am  all 
alone  I go  out  there  and  sit  and  talk  with  them. 
It  is  very  silly  I know ; but  somehow  it  seems  to 
relieve  me.” 

I said  nothing ; the  mirth  her  woe-begone  appear- 
ance had  roused  in  me  disappeared,  and  I felt  a 
deep  pang  of  sympathy  in  my  heart  for  her,  and 
I realised  that  behind  her  skittishness  and  frivolity 
was  anyhow  the  heart  of  a real  woman. 

From  this  moment  her  manner  towards  me  com- 
pletely changed,  she  abandoned  her  captivating  and 
alluring  ways,  and  turned  out  to  be  so  kindly  and 
homely  a creature  that  I was  positively  loathe  to 
leave  her,  when  I decided  to  move  into  a studio. 
I have  often  thought  since,  and  with  a certain 
regret  of  the  cosy  sitting  - room  with  its  cheerful 
fire  when  I came  down  to  breakfast ; how  she 
would  fuss  around  and  make  me  comfortable,  and 
tell  me  all  the  news,  and  talk  about  my  work  of 
the  day.  She  was  indeed  a “ find  ” as  a landlady, 
and  there  are  probably  few  like  her  nowadays  in 
St  John’s  Wood. 

My  search  for  a cheap  studio  was  not  an  easy 
one,  considering  how  little  I was  prepared  to  pay. 
My  Paris  experience  had  spoiled  me  in  this  respect, 
and  I soon  discovered  that  it  was  a complete  impossi- 
bility to  get  anything  at  all  in  London  for  the  same 
rent  I paid  in  Montmartre.  The  reason  for  this 
was  not  difficult  to  explain.  In  the  artists’  quarter 
of  Paris  the  landlords  often  build  with  a view  to 
attracting  artists,  and  studios  with  north  lights  are 
to  be  found  readily  throughout  the  district.  In 
London  this  was  quite  the  exception  in  the  days 
of  which  I am  writing,  and  if  there  happened  to 
be  a large  room  in  a house  facing  north,  which 

7 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


could  be  converted  into  a studio,  a fancy  price 
was  immediately  asked. 

A comparison  between  the  rents  of  London  and 
Paris  of  that  time  may  be  of  interest.  I shared 
a studio  with  a friend  in  the  Passage  Lathuile 
in  the  Avenue  de  Clichy,  for  which  we  paid  £ 15 
a year.  It  certainly  was  not  pretentious  or  ex- 
tremely commodious,  but  it  answered  our  purpose 
well,  as  it  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  had  a 
good  light.  For  £ 2 5 a year  we  could  have  easily 
found  quite  a luxurious  place  with  bedroom  and 
dressing  - room.  In  London,  in  St  John’s  Wood, 
such  rents  were  unknown,  and  even  for  a small 
workshop  in  a mews  a much  higher  figure  would 
be  cheerfully  asked,  whilst  one  had  to  be  getting 
on  very  well  to  afford  a real  studio. 

Of  course  as  against  this  must  be  considered 
the  fact  that  if  one  got  on  only  fairly  well, 
the  prices  obtainable  for  one’s  work  ruled  much 
higher  than  across  the  Channel — still  it  was  purely 
problematical  whether  one  did  ever  get  on  suffici- 
ently to  even  make  a living  by  art,  leave  alone 
pay  an  exorbitant  rent.  I realised,  therefore,  that 
for  the  first  few  years,  whilst  endeavouring  to  make 
headway,  it  practically  meant  working  for  one’s  land- 
lord most  of  the  time — a thankless  task,  as  will  be 
admitted.  Still  there  was  no  help  for  it,  so  I con- 
tinued my  search  with  unabated  energy  buoyed 
up  with  a dogged  determination  to  see  it  through, 
if  with  hard  work  it  were  possible. 

I was  particularly  keen  on  settling  in  St  John’s 
Wood,  as  the  district  had,  as  I have  said,  somehow 
appealed  to  me  from  the  very  first,  and  after  many 
days  of  fruitless  search  for  cheap  rooms  or  a work- 
shop that  could  be  converted  into  a studio,  I suddenly 
heard  of  a furnished  studio  at  36  Marlboro’  Hill, 
which  was  to  let  for  a year  at  a very  reasonable 
rental  to  a responsible  tenant.  I was  indeed  in 
luck’s  way,  as  it  turned  out  to  be  the  very  sort  of 

8 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


place  I had  been  looking  for,  and  could  not  have  been 
better  suited  for  my  purpose,  since  I had  no  furniture 
whatever. 

The  owner,  a rather  well-known  painter,  Ponsonby 
Staples,  was  not  exacting  in  his  idea  of  rent,  since 
he  was  only  asking  for  a twelve  months’ 

tenancy,  which  was  indeed  remarkably  cheap  con- 
sidering the  place  was  completely  furnished,  in 
fact  there  was  everything  an  artist  could  reason- 
ably require,  even  to  crockery,  such  as  it  was,  and 
a gas -cooking  stove.  It  was  arranged  with  the 
artistic  taste  one  might  have  expected  from  a man 
of  Staples’  reputation. 

The  premises,  which  were  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  were  separate  from  the  house,  consisted  of  a 
large  studio  with  top  light,  an  alcove  with  a bed 
in  it,  and  a sort  of  annexe  which  had  been  con- 
verted into  a kitchen.  There  was  a tiny  little 
garden  at  the  back  in  which,  at  a pinch,  one 
could  make  open-air  studies,  and  there  were  two 
entrances,  one  at  the  front  and  the  other  at  the 
back  through  the  garden.  It  was  a delightfully 
cheery  place,  and  appeared  still  more  so  on  the 
sunny  spring  morning  I visited  it. 

Without  hesitation  I signed  the  agreement,  and 
entered  into  possession  at  once,  and  it  was  with 
the  most  pleasurable  feelings  that  I moved  in. 
My  sympathetic  landlady  in  Wellington  Road 
was,  I believe,  genuinely  sorry  to  lose  me ; but 
she  agreed  that  it  was  a stroke  of  luck  having 
dropped  on  such  a place  at  all.  She  made  me 
promise  to  come  in  and  see  her,  and  have  a cup 
of  tea  whenever  I felt  I should  like  to  have  a 
change  and  a quiet  chat. 

As  I have  said,  the  studio  was  ready  for 
immediate  occupation — in  fact,  Staples  had  left 
all  his  belongings  lying  about  in  the  most  un- 
conventional manner,  very  different  to  what  one 
would  have  expected  from  one’s  landlord.  If 

9 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I remember  rightly,  he  did  not  even  make  an 
inventory  of  what  was  in  the  place.  All  I had 
to  do,  therefore,  was  to  move  a canvas  or  so,  put 
my  own  studies  on  the  easels,  get  out  my  paint- 
box and  start  work  without  further  delay.  It 
was  very  delightful,  and  I was  quite  buoyed  up 
with  enthusiasm ; although  I was  surrounded  by 
some  one  else’s  belongings,  everything  was  so  in 
unison  with  my  own  ideas  that  it  was  as  though 
I had  furnished  and  fitted  it  all  up  myself.  More- 
over, Staples  had,  like  myself,  studied  abroad,  so 
there  was  the  added  charm  of  a certain  continental 
touch  which  struck  me  as  soon  as  I entered  the 
place,  and  which  not  a little  had  induced  me  to 
take  it. 

I had,  as  I have  explained,  nothing  in  the 
world  except  my  personal  belongings,  and  did 
not  wish  to  encroach  on  my  tiny  capital,  if  I could 
possibly  help  it,  by  buying  anything  except  actual 
necessities  for  the  moment,  and  in  this  resolve  I was 
strenuously  backed  up  by  my  ci  - devant  guardian, 
an  uncle  of  mine  named  Jephson,  a middle-aged 
bachelor,  who,  after  living  many  years  in  China  and 
Japan,  had  retired  and  settled  down  in  London. 
He  lived  sufficiently  close  to  St  John’s  Wood  to 
afford  him  an  excuse  for  a daily  stroll  round  to 
Marlboro’  Hill  to  see  how  I was  getting  on. 
Despite  the  disparity  in  our  ages  we  soon  became 
the  staunchest  of  chums,  and  it  was  mainly  due 
to  his  sound  advice  that  I managed  to  pull 
through  as  I did,  for  it  was  hard  and  uphill  work 
at  first. 

“ Dear  old  Jeph  ! ” as  he  was  always  affectionately 
called — I can  see  him  now  — so  spruce  and  well- 
groomed,  and  it  was  at  all  times  a delight  and  a 
source  of  inward  merriment  to  me  to  watch  him 
fussing  about  the  studio,  good  - naturedly  doing  his 
best  to  be  of  assistance  to  me  in  one  way  or  another, 
without  soiling  his  immaculate  attire.  He  was  at 

io 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


heart  a bit  of  a dilletante , and  I fancy  he  really 
imagined  he  was  getting  on  closer  terms  with  art 
when  sitting  about  the  studio  trying  to  smoke  a big 
pipe,  which  never  agreed  with  him,  or  helping  to 
prepare  a little  Bohemian  lunch. 

One  day  comes  back  to  me.  Some  friends  arrived 
when  he  was  busily  occupied  in  the  kitchen,  and  he 
hadn’t  heard  the  bell  ring.  He  had  been  in  there 
some  little  time,  and,  curiosity  as  to  the  reason  lead- 
ing us  to  peep  through  the  door,  imagine  our  amuse- 
ment at  finding  Jeph  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  the  char- 
woman’s apron  about  his  dapper  figure,  with  lemon- 
coloured  kid  gloves  on,  intently  engaged  trying  his 
hand  at  making  what  he  was  pleased  afterwards  to 
inform  us  was  a curry  as  his  “ boy  ” used  to  make 
it  in  Shanghai. 

His  was  a personality  between  the  level-headed- 
ness of  the  travelled  man  of  the  world  and  the 
irresponsible  impetuosity  of  one  who  in  middle-age 
has  not  outgrown  his  youth,  which  was  strangely 
fascinating.  Beyond  all  was  his  cheery  optimism, 
which  helped  me  to  bear  many  disillusions  and  dis- 
appointments, and  assisted  considerably  to  cheer  up 
my  early  studio  days  in  London. 


CHAPTER  II 


My  first  experience  of  Bohemian  life  in  London — Of  living  as  compared 
with  Paris — The  saloon  bars  and  the  “ shilling  ordinary  ” — The 
London  charwoman — Her  French  prototype — My  first  commission 
— A lady  visitor — A delightful  afternoon — Commencement  of  a 
little  romance — Painting  in  my  back  garden — Sudden  ending  of 
the  romance. 

I CAN  conceive  nothing  less  calculated  to  fire  one 
with  romantic  thoughts  than  the  feeling  of  being 
suddenly  thrown  on  one’s  own  resources — as  I was  at 
this  time.  Even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many 
years.  I can  vividly  recall  my  misgivings  as  to  how 
my  experiment  with  regard  to  taking  a studio  would 
turn  out.  I was  always  of  a very  impressionable 
temperament,  and  it  takes  but  little  to  depress  or 
elate  me,  and  so  it  happened  at  this  juncture  after 
the  excitement  of  moving  in. 

For  the  next  few  days  I had  a fit  of  the  blues  at 
the  mere  thought  of  the  strenuous  task  that  faced 
me  and  the  £50  rent  assumed  brobdingnagian  pro- 
portions in  my  vivid  imagination.  I had  a sudden 
and  wild  dread  that  hard  times  were  going  to  replace 
the  joyous  years  of  my  Paris  life,  and  I feared  that 
it  would  require  far  more  energy  than  I possessed  to 
get  over  them.  This  vague  presentiment,  fortunately 
for  me,  was  not  borne  out  by  results,  for  although,  like 
many  young  artists,  I had  continual  ups  and  downs, 
I found  that  if  I could  “ keep  my  pecker  up,”  things 
generally  turned  out  all  right,  as  will  be  seen. 

There  being  nothing  to  be  gained  by  sitting  down 
imagining  the  worst,  I had  started  work  on  a sketch 

12 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


one  morning  a few  days  after  I had  settled  down 
when  Jeph  turned  up  unexpectedly,  and  to  my  delight 
explained  the  reason  of  his  matutinal  visit.  Like 
the  good  fellow  he  was,  he  had  spoken  to  a friend 
about  me,  and  interested  him  so  much  in  me  and  my 
work  that  I was  to  go  round  and  see  him  at  once, 
and  probably  he  would  commission  me  to  paint 
something  for  his  billiard-room.  As  may  be  imagined, 
I didn’t  require  much  persuading,  and,  well  to  cut 
the  story  short,  I got  an  order  there  and  then  for 
a couple  of  small  pictures — and  this  was  practically 
the  commencement  of  my  studio  life.  I cannot 
remember  now  what  I was  paid  for  these  pictures, 
but  I can  recollect  how  proud  I felt  at  already  having 
real  work  in  hand,  and  practically  making  a start  at 
earning  a living  by  my  brush,  though  I didn’t  allow 
myself  to  be  led  into  wild  extravagance  merely  on 
the  strength  of  my  little  stroke  of  good  luck. 

I had  already  found  before  I had  been  many  days 
in  the  studio  that  actual  living  was  more  expensive 
in  London  than  in  Paris,  and  that  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  provisions  as  a whole  in  France  were 
considerably  dearer  than  in  England.  The  only 
explanation  of  the  apparent  mystery  is  doubtless 
the  superior  genius  of  the  French  in  making  the 
best  of  and  utilising  everything  in  the  shape  of  food. 

The  Englishman’s  old  jibe  against  French  kick- 
shaws may  have  some  foundation  in  fact,  but  to  the 
young  student  of  small  purse  and  large  appetite  the 
selfsame  kickshaws,  at  the  price  at  which  they  are 
dispensed  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  are  by 
no  means  to  be  despised.  The  fare  one  got  at  the 
English  eating-houses  at  the  time  of  which  I am 
writing  may  have  been,  and  probably  was,  very  filling 
and  satisfying  for  the  money,  but  to  any  one  like 
myself,  who  had  lived  in  Paris,  and  had  acquired  a 
somewhat  artistic  taste  in  the  matter  of  flavouring, 
was  a very  poor  substitute  for  what  they  served  you  at 
even  the  most  humble  of  marchands  de  vin  over  there. 

13 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


For  the  first  few  weeks,  till  I was  fixed  up,  I used 
to  go  out  for  my  lunch  to  some  public-house  close 
by,  as  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  of  a restaurant 
anywhere  in  the  district,  and  I can  well  remember 
how  repugnant  to  me  it  was  to  have  to  do  so ; more 
perhaps  on  account  of  the  idea  of  frequenting  a 
“ pub  ” than  by  reason  of  the  actual  food,  which  was 
always  fairly  good,  though  very  humble,  whilst  of 
course  there  was  not  much  variety. 

At  a house  called  “The  Knights  of  St  John”  in 
Queen’s  Terrace,  where  several  artists  used  to  gather 
for  lunch,  they  gave  you  quite  a good  “shilling 
ordinary,”  consisting  of  a cut  from  the  joint,  two 
vegetables,  and  sweets  or  cheese  which,  washed  down 
with  “ half  of  stout  and  bitter,”  was  satisfying  enough 
in  quantity  at  any  rate,  even  for  my  appetite  which, 
in  those  days  was,  I remember,  enormous.  But  it 
was  only  “feeding,”  or  as  we  called  it  “stoking,” 
pure  and  simple,  and  you  had  to  be  really  hungry  to 
enjoy  it. 

I do  not  think  that,  even  in  those  days,  I could  have 
been  accused  of  putting  on  “ side  ” ; but  the  contrast 
between  the  charming  little  Paris  restaurants  I had 
got  so  accustomed  to  and  these  rough  and  ready 
public-house  bars,  was  so  great  that  I made  up  my 
mind  to  avoid  them  as  much  as  possible.  I there- 
fore decided  always  to  feed  in  the  studio  if  I could 
manage  it,  as  I felt  that  however  rough  and  ready 
the  meals  would  be,  at  any  rate  they  would  be  pre- 
ferable to  going  out  every  day. 

In  order  to  carry  out  this  resolve,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  find  a servant  of  some  description,  and  I thus 
made  my  first  acquaintance  with  the  genus  char- 
woman— an  individual  I have  long  since  come  to 
believe  to  be  absolutely  indigenous  and  peculiar 
to  England.  She  certainly,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  has  no  counterpart  in  France,  where  the  wife 
of  one’s  concierge , if  she  is  a decent  sort,  may  for 
a small  monthly  consideration,  usually  about  4s. 

H 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


(5  francs),  come  and  clean  your  place  up  and  get  you 
your  morning  cafe  and  roll.  If  you  are  differently 
situated  you  may  for  an  equally  reasonable  honora- 
rium obtain  the  services  of  a femme  de  menage , but 
in  either  case  you  will  have  a person  working  for 
you  who  for  the  nonce  is  your  employee,  and  is 
an  industrious,  cleanly,  sober  person,  and,  above 
all,  dressed  in  keeping  with  her  position. 

In  England,  as  I was  not  long  in  discovering,  the 
prototype  of  the  French  femme  de  menage  is  usually 
ail  impudent,  frowsy  individual  of  middle-age,  with 
a marked  taste  for  beer,  and  for  attiring  herself  in 
shabby  finery.  Unfortunately  for  the  struggling 
artist  who  has  to  make  his  home  in  his  studio,  this 
unpleasant  type  is  a necessity,  unless  he  is  prepared 
to  carry  his  Bohemianism  to  the  extent  of  cleaning 
up  his  place  and  doing  for  himself.  I was  not 
inclined  for  this,  so  had  perforce  to  find  some  one 
to  come  in  every  morning  to  tidy  up  and  get  me 
my  breakfast  and  lunch.  I was  told  that  7s.  per 
week  was  the  very  least  I could  get  any  one  to 
come  for,  which  was  of  course  3s.  more  than  I 
paid  for  the  same  work  in  Paris ; but  the  number 
of  applicants  I got  for  the  job,  even  at  this  figure, 
was  sufficient  to  prove  that  “ charing  ” was  a popular 
occupation  in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  person  I eventually  selected  was  typical  of 
her  class,  and  indeed  quite  a character  in  her  way. 
She  had  already  worked  for  an  artist,  so  fancied 
she  was  familiar  with  studio  life,  *and  never  missed 
an  opportunity  to  let  me  know  it  if  I gave  her  the 
slightest  encouragement  to  talk.  Models  in  her 
eyes  were  depraved  hussies,  so  she  told  me  once, 
and  “she  would  not  sit  for  the  figure,  no — not  if 
the  King  of  England  asked  her.”  Needless  to  add, 
I was  never  tempted  to  induce  her  to  alter  her 
resolve. 

She  hadn’t  been  with  me  a week  before  I realised 
that  on  the  slightest  provocation  she  could  be  so 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


insolent  that  one  had  almost  to  ask  as  a favour 
for  anything  to  be  done,  that  her  other  artist,  who 
“was  a gentleman,  God  bless  him,”  didn’t  require. 
Well  I kept  her  on  for  a time,  as  it  gave  me 
a good  opportunity  to  have  a look  round  and 
get  used  to  the  neighbourhood,  and  gradually  to 
make  arrangements  for  having  my  meals  in  the 
studio.  Cooking,  however,  was  not  her  forte , perhaps 
her  former  artist  had  been  a nut  eater,  as  the  meals 
she  served  me  were  of  the  roughest  description,  and 
required  the  healthy  appetite  of  a young  man  to 
negotiate. 

My  next  charwoman  experience  was  not  much 
more  satisfactory — perhaps  it  was  that  I had  been 
spoiled  when  living  in  Paris — anyhow  it  took  me 
some  time  to  get  used  to  the  various  specimens  I 
had  to  put  up  with  in  the  commencement  of  my 
studio  life  in  London. 

Those  early  days  in  St  John’s  Wood  were  singu- 
larly uneventful,  probably  because  my  friends  had 
not  yet  learned  my  whereabouts,  so  it  was  rather  dull 
at  first  sitting  about  all  day  alone,  and  without  even 
a ring  at  the  bell  to  liven  one  up,  for  I didn’t  care 
to  go  out  in  the  day-time  in  case  any  one  should 
call  during  my  absence. 

Still  there  was  always  a chance  of  something 
turning  up,  as  I soon  discovered,  and  it  was  this 
expectancy  that  relieved  the  monotony  of  many 
a quiet  day,  and  in  this  connection  I recall  what 
was  quite  a little  event  in  its  way — my  first  lady 
visitor,  a model.  This  incident,  trivial  as  it  may 
have  seemed  at  first,  is  indelibly  marked  on  my 
memory,  as,  curiously  enough,  it  developed  all  the 
elements  of  a little  romance,  and  such  it  undoubtedly 
was  whilst  it  lasted.  It  came  about  this  way. 

It  was  about  four  o’clock  one  wet  afternoon,  and 
I had  been  absolutely  alone  all  day,  not  a soul  to 
speak  to,  when  there  came  a ring  at  the  bell.  I 
went  to  open  the  door,  my  palette  in  hand — a little 

1 6 


auburn." 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


trick  of  my  Paris  studio  life,  so  as  to  make  one 
appear  busy  in  case  it  was  an  unwelcome  visitor — 
when  I saw  it  was  a very  nice-looking  girl  outside. 

“ Do  you  want  a model  ? ” she  asked. 

I was  so  pleased  to  have  a visitor  at  all  that  I 
invited  her  in,  and  said  I would  take  her  address 
down  in  my  model  book.  More  for  form’s  sake 
than  anything  else  I asked  her  to  take  off  her  hat, 
and  then  saw  she  had  my  favourite  colour  hair — 
auburn.  I cannot  recollect  what  suggested  it,  but 
I think  it  was  about  tea-time  and  the  tea-things 
were  laid,  anyhow  I asked  her  if  she  would  care  for 
a cup  of  tea,  and  she  accepted  without  hesitation — 
in  fact  I thought  she  was  pleased  at  the  invitation. 

Somehow  I always  felt  a little  bit  sorry  for 
girls  who  made  their  living  tramping  from  studio 
to  studio,  and  in  all  weathers : it  had  always  struck 
me  as  being  a wearisome  and  thankless  task  at  the 
best  of  times,  apart  from  the  precarious  nature  of 
the  work.  In  the  case  of  an  extremely  pretty  and 
delicate  type  of  girl,  as  this  one  was,  it  seemed  almost 
a shame  that  she  should  go  round  by  herself  amongst 
a lot  of  strange  men  thus.  Of  course  it  was  in  the 
interests  of  Art  (with  the  usual  big  “ A ”) ; but  I 
could  not  help  thinking  how  many  men  would  have 
gladly  welcomed  her,  even  if  she  hadn’t  said  she 
was  an  artist’s  model. 

Whether  it  was  the  tea,  or  my  frankly  unconven- 
tional manner,  I cannot  of  course  tell,  but  at  any 
rate  we  were  not  long  before  we  got  on  quite  friendly 
terms,  more  so  perhaps  than  the  object  of  her  visit 
warranted,  and  I found  her  a most  charming  person- 
ality. To  my  surprise  she  informed  me  she  had 
only  just  taken  up  sitting,  and  that  she  had  been 
a nursery  governess ; but  had  got  tired  of  the  hum- 
drum life  of  looking  after  a lot  of  noisy  children  and 
being  treated  like  a servant.  So  when  one  day  a 
girl  friend  of  hers,  who  was  a model,  told  her  she 
could  make  a good  living  by  sitting,  she  had  thought 

1 7 B 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


it  over,  and  decided  to  try  her  luck  and  go  round 
the  studios. 

With  the  aid  of  a Royal  Academy  catalogue  she 
had  made  out  a lot  of  addresses  of  artists  likely  to 
want  models,  and  that  was  how  she  had  come  to 
my  studio,  because  of  course  my  landlord’s  name  was 
in  the  book,  as  he  was  a constant  exhibitor.  She 
was  so  delightfully  frank  and  ingenuous  about  it 
all  that  I remember  I contrasted  her  in  my  mind 
with  the  vivacious,  but,  often  so  artificial,  petites 
femmes  one  saw  in  the  Paris  ateliers , and  the  com- 
parison was  not  entirely  in  their  favour  perhaps,  for 
she  harmonised  with  the  grey  surroundings  of  the 
secluded  St  John’s  Wood  street  and  my  particular 
mood  at  the  moment.  In  Paris,  pretty  though  she 
was,  she  would  probably  have  passed  unnoticed ; 
they  want  chic  as  well  as  beauty  over  there,  and 
very  few  English  girls  possess  it. 

I could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  ask  her  her 
impression  of  studio  life,  which  must  have  been  so 
different  to  what  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
previously,  and  was  much  amused  at  some  of  her 
experiences  with  artists,  for  it  is  always  interesting 
to  learn  how  others  see  us. 

I recollect  one  little  adventure  she  told  me  she 
had  had  at  the  very  commencement  of  her  taking  up 
sitting,  which  appeared  to  me  to  cast  a lurid  light 
on  the  so-called  “artistic  temperament.” 

It  was,  she  said,  almost  the  first  time  she  sat,  and 
it  was  to  a young  man.  He  seemed  to  be  at  first  as 
quiet  and  as  mild  a person  as  possible ; she  had  been 
sitting  for  what  appeared  to  her  quite  a long  while, 
in  a very  strained  and  unnatural  position,  doing  her 
best  to  keep  as  still  as  possible  ; but  he  was  evidently 
not  satisfied  either  with  his  work  or  her,  and  she 
heard  him  muttering  and  swearing  to  himself  whilst 
painting.  Suddenly,  to  her  surprise,  he  jumped  up, 
seized  his  paint  knife  and  scraped  off  all  his  morning’s 
work,  and  then  flung  his  palette  and  brushes  on  the 

18 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


floor,  stamped  on  them  with  rage,  smashing  them  to 
pieces.  He  behaved  just  like  a lunatic,  and  she  was 
too  frightened  to  say  anything ; she  thought  he  had 
taken  leave  of  his  senses  and  didn’t  know  what  was 
going  to  happen  next.  After  a few  minutes  he 
calmed  down,  told  her  she  might  dress,  paid  her, 
and  said  she  had  better  go — that  he  was  no  good  at 
painting,  and  would  chuck  it  and  take  up  bootmaking 
or  something  else  instead.  She  never  sat  for  him 
again  after  that,  and  would  not  have  if  he  had  begged 
her  to.  That  was  the  most  curious  adventure  she 
had  ever  had,  and  although  she  was  getting  used  to 
artists  she  said  she  didn’t  want  another  like  it,  and 
I agreed  with  her  it  must  have  been  a bit  thrilling. 

We  were  getting  on  splendidly  together,  and  I 
found  her  so  nice  that  I had  already  realised  that  I 
was  in  luck’s  way  that  afternoon,  when  there  came 
another  ring  at  the  bell,  and  who  should  it  be  but 
Jeph.  Of  course  I asked  him  in,  as  I felt  quite 
elated  with  myself,  and  I remember  the  look  on  his 
face  of  astonishment  when  he  saw  I had  a lady 
visitor,  for  beyond  what  he  had  read  in  books  about 
life  in  studios  he  knew  very  little  really  of  what 
went  on  in  them  ; so  we  had  quite  a cheery  little 
tea-party,  for  he  was  capital  company. 

After  this  he  didn’t  take  long  getting  accustomed 
to  finding  visitors  of  the  fair  sex  when  he  called, 
and  I feel  convinced  that  his  ideas  on  art  henceforth 
were  more  specially  connected  with  the  pretty  girls 
he  might  have  the  chance  of  meeting  at  my  studio. 

But  to  return  to  this  particular  occasion,  I could 
not  afford  models,  so  I had  to  resist  the  temptation 
for  the  moment  to  paint  a picture  from  my  new 
acquaintance,  much  as  I should  have  liked  to,  for 
she  really  was  very  pretty  and  had,  as  I have  said, 
fair  hair  of  a shade  I have  always  had  a particular 
penchant  for. 

When  at  last  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  I told 
her  quite  frankly  that  I was  not  able  to  give  her  a 

19 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


sitting  yet  awhile,  and  I believe  she  intuitively 
guessed  my  reasons  and  appreciated  my  frankness, 
for  we  parted  the  very  best  of  friends,  and  she 
promised  to  come  and  see  me  again  very  soon. 

“ Never  mind,”  she  said,  “ if  you  cannot  give  me 
any  work,  you  can  always  let  me  have  a cup  of  tea, 
and  I should  love  to  have  another  nice  chat  with 
you  like  we  have  had  this  afternoon,”  and  when  we 
separated  I felt  that  there  was  already  a certain 
bond  of  sympathy  between  us. 

After  this  she  was  constantly  calling  on  her  way 
home  from  her  sittings  and  making  all  sorts  of 
excuses  for  doing  so.  In  the  course  of  time  I 
began  to  hope  that  the  studio  possessed  some 
possible  attraction  for  her  beyond  the  chance  of 
getting  a sitting  from  me,  and  I soon  got  to  look 
forward  to  her  coming  to  see  me,  and  even  to  wait 
for  it.  She  seemed  to  bring  an  atmosphere  of 
cheerfulness  into  the  place  and  somehow  managed 
to  impart  what  I had  already  felt  was  wanting  to 
complete  the  ensemble  of  the  studio  — the  feminine 
element — that  mysterious  something,  without  which, 
as  I have  always  felt  since  those  days,  all  is  grey 
and  monotonous.  I fancy  I can  still  hear  her 
familiar  tap  at  the  studio  door,  and  her  cheery 
“ May  I come  in  ? Are  you  alone  ? ” and  can  see 
her  unfeigned  pleasure  at  being  with  me  again. 

One  sunny  morning  I remember  she  turned  up, 
wearing  such  a charming  frock  that  it  positively 
gave  me  an  inspiration,  and  I decided  to  risk  the 
expense  and  start  a painting  from  her  there  and 
then. 

I had,  as  I have  said,  a few  feet  of  ground  which 
was  dignified  with  the  name  of  “ garden  ” at  the 
back  of  the  studio,  with  rather  a quaint  little  flight 
of  steps  leading  up  to  it,  and  some  straggling  bushes. 
It  was  really  not  worth  mentioning  as  a garden, 
but  somehow  it  suggested  an  open-air  subject,  and 
to  her  evident  delight  I said  she  could  sit  to  me  for 


20 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

it  if  she  liked.  Whether  it  was  the  subject  or  my 
model  I don’t  know,  but  the  picture  brought  me 
luck,  as  I sold  it  before  it  was  finished. 

What  jolly  times  they  were  whilst  I was  painting 
it.  I can  see  her  now  in  my  mind’s  eye  seated  on  a 
rug  on  the  top  step  leaning  against  a packing  case 
which  represented  an  old  wall.  Her  colouring  was 
perfect  in  the  open  air,  and  I worked  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  I believe  she  shared,  for  she  took 
the  greatest  interest  in  the  work  as  it  progressed — 
in  fact  our  relations  were  scarcely  those  of  artist 
and  model,  and  she  realised  it  as  well  as  I.  We 
used  to  have  afternoon  tea  in  the  “ garden,”  and  I 
remember  her  facetiously  suggesting  that  it  only 
wanted  a few  wasps  to  complete  the  illusion  and 
make  it  quite  rural. 

It  was  very  delightful  while  it  lasted,  for  it 
was  all  new  to  me ; but  it  was  not  destined  to 
become  a liaison  such  as  one  might  have  expected 
under  similar  circumstances  in  Paris — as  a matter  of 
fact  it  terminated  somewhat  abruptly,  as  will  be  seen. 

The  picture  was  at  last  finished,  and  then  she 
had  to  look  out  for  some  other  sittings  ; but  still 
she  came  to  see  me  as  usual.  From  dropping  in 
occasionally  she  gradually  took  to  calling  every  day, 
until  at  last  I could  never  be  certain  if  I was  going 
to  be  alone  or  not.  It  was  not  exactly  awkward, 
but  as  in  the  meantime  my  relations  were  begin- 
ning to  look  me  up  it  was  not  always  convenient 
to  have  a girl  there  when  they  came,  more  especially 
as  I was  not  painting  from  her. 

In  Paris  it  didn’t  so  much  matter;  studio  life  was 
so  different,  and  there  were  no  prejudices  to  be  over- 
come, moreover  I had  no  female  relatives  to  visit  me 
there.  Well,  one  afternoon  I had  a little  tea-party 
on  when  there  came  a ring  at  the  bell,  followed  by 
her  tap  at  the  studio  door.  I went  out,  palette  in 
hand  as  was  my  usual  wont,  and  pulling  the  door 
to  behind  me,  explained  in  a whisper  that  I had  a 

21 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


family  party,  so  she  must  forgive  me  if  I didn’t  invite 
her  in.  She  looked  a little  bit  surprised  and  dis- 
appointed, as  this  was  the  first  time  such  a thing 
had  happened. 

“ I suppose  it  cannot  be  helped,”  she  remarked  ; 
“ but  I wanted  so  much  to  have  a chat  with  you. 
I will  come  back  this  evening.” 

In  the  evening,  however,  I was  not  there  as  I had 
to  dine  en  famille , so  I had  to  leave  a note  to  that 
effect  pinned  on  the  door.  The  next  day  she  came 
as  though  nothing  had  happened ; she  quite  under- 
stood, she  said,  that  I was  obliged  to  go  out  some- 
times and  be  with  my  people.  But  it  was  the  little 
rift  within  the  lute,  and  on  two  other  occasions 
shortly  after  I was  again  obliged  to  make  excuses 
for  not  asking  her  in.  At  last  the  end  came  with 
tragic  suddenness. 

I was  not  expecting  her  one  afternoon — a friend 
and  I had  two  ladies  to  tea,  and  we  were  having  a 
very  jolly  time  laughing  and  singing.  Any  one  just 
outside  the  studio  could  have  heard  our  merriment 
distinctly.  Suddenly  there  was  a ring,  followed  by 
a tap  at  the  door  I knew  so  well.  Somehow  I 
felt  annoyed  at  her  visit  just  at  that  moment,  so 
asked  my  friend  to  go  out  and  say  I was  engaged 
and  could  not  see  any  one.  He  came  back  in  a few 
minutes  looking  very  mysterious,  and  coming  up  to 
me  said  significantly,  “It  is  Jones,  and  he  says  he 
won’t  keep  you  a moment,  but  he  must  speak  to 
you  ; you  had  better  go,  I think.”  So  I went  out. 
I shall  never  forget  the  look  on  her  face ; she  was 
positively  livid  with  suppressed  rage  or  jealousy; 
I never  thought  it  was  in  her. 

“ I am  sorry  to  disturb  your  little  party,”  she  said 
with  icy  intonation  ; “ but  you  might  give  me  that 
book  I left  in  the  studio  yesterday.” 

Her  manner  irritated  me  beyond  measure,  and  any 
tender  feeling  I may  have  had  towards  her  vanished 
instantly.  I had  seen  this  sort  of  thing  too  often 

22 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


whilst  living  in  Paris,  and  didn’t  want  to  start  any  of 
it  on  my  own  account  here  in  London — so  without  a 
word  I went  back  into  my  studio,  fetched  the  book, 
and  brought  it  to  her.  She  took  it  without  saying 
anything,  and  was  walking  down  the  gravel  path  to 
the  street,  when  something  impelled  me  to  follow  her 
and  ask  her  when  I should  see  her  again — for  after 
all  we  had  been  very  good  pals,  and  I suppose  I had 
just  a little  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for  the  girl.  She 
turned  round,  and  I noticed  to  my  surprise  that  her 
fit  of  temper  had  passed,  and  she  was  weeping. 

“ I am  never  coming  to  see  you  again,”  she  replied 
quietly ; “ so  you  will  be  quite  free  to  have  as  many 
girls  as  you  choose  in  the  studio.  I have  been  very 
foolish  to  let  you  see  how  much  I care,  but  it  has 
been  a lesson  to  me  I shan’t  forget.” 

I was  dumbfounded,  as  I had  had  no  idea  that  she 
had  taken  our  seeing  so  much  of  each  other  so 
seriously.  I could  do  nothing  but  utter  a sort  of 
mild  protest.  She  turned  to  go  away  without 
another  word,  whilst  I stood  at  the  gate  irresolute 
and  half  hesitating,  watching  her  retreating  form, 
as  she  walked  quickly  up  the  deserted  street.  For 
a moment  I had  it  in  my  mind  to  run  after  her 
and  persuade  her  to  come  back  ; but  the  thought 
was  only  momentary,  young  as  I was  then  I had 
already  realised  from  what  I had  seen  in  Paris 
that  anything  in  the  nature  of  a “ tie  ” was  irksome, 
and  besides  which  I knew  that  I wasn’t  in  love 
with  her,  although  I liked  her  very  much. 

As  she  disappeared  round  the  corner  and  out  of 
my  life  I felt  instinctively  that  it  was  better  for 
both  of  us  that  it  should  end  thus. 

“ So  you  have  managed  to  get  rid  of  Jones  at  last ; 
we  thought  you  were  never  coming  back,”  cried  my 
visitors. 

“Yes,”  I replied;  “I  am  quite  free  now.”  But  I 
could  not  help  feeling  a little  pang  at  my  heart  as  I 
remembered  her  tears. 


23 


CHAPTER  III 


My  letter  of  introduction  to  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  P.R.A. — His 
house  and  studio  in  Holland  Park  Road — The  artistic  beauty  of 
its  interior — Impressions  of  my  visit — Leighton’s  sympathetic 
personality — His  wonderful  charm  of  manner  — His  linguistic 
accomplishments  — The  secret  of  his  great  popularity  — His 
Sunday  receptions — Amusing  anecdote  of  a Royal  Academician 
— The  fashionable  crowd  in  the  studio  on  Show  Sunday — Story 
of  the  President  and  the  model. 


I HAD  brought  with  me  from  Paris  two  letters  of 
introduction  from  G^rome,  my  Master,  at  the  Ecole 
des  Beaux  Arts,  one  to  Lord  Leighton,  then  Sir 
Frederick  Leighton,  the  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy  ; the  other  to  John  Everett  Millais,  R.A., 
but  had  postponed  presenting  them  until  I was 
settled  at  some  permanent  address,  so  that  now  I 
was  fixed  up  in  Marlboro’  Hill  I decided  to  pay 
my  visits. 

Millais  lived  in  a great  big  newly-built  house  of 
the  prosperous  bourgeois  type  at  Palace  Gate  facing 
Kensington  Gardens.  He  was  reputed  to  be  up 
to  his  ears  in  work,  and  to  be  making  ^30,000  a 
year  by  his  portrait  painting  alone  in  those  days, 
so  I had  my  doubts  about  being  able  to  see  him. 
He  happened  to  be  out  of  town  when  I called,  so 
I went  straight  on  to  Sir  Frederick  Leighton’s, 
hoping  to  have  better  luck  with  him.  Curiously 
enough,  for  some  reason  which  I am  not  able  to 
recall,  I never  presented  my  letter  of  introduction 
to  Millais;  it  was  a long  way  from  St  John’s  Wood 
to  Kensington,  and  I heard  he  was  a difficult  man 

24 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  catch,  so  perhaps  that  accounted  for  my  not 
chancing  the  journey  again. 

Sir  Frederick  lived  in  Holland  Park  Road,  in  a 
very  beautiful  place,  which  he  had  had  built  from 
his  own  designs,  and  which  had  become  one  of  the 
show  places  of  the  artistic  world.  Holland  Park 
Road  in  those  days  was  almost  rural  in  its  quietude, 
for  it  was  practically  an  unfinished  thoroughfare, 
in  fact  so  much  so  that  Leighton  used  to  tell 
every  one  as  a joke  that  he  lived  in  a mews,  for 
to  get  into  his  road  from  either  end  one  had  to 
pass  through  a stable  yard ; but  he  had  artistic 
company  in  his  “ mews,”  for  his  friend  Val  Prinsep 
lived  next  door,  and  there  were  several  studios  of 
eminent  painters  close  by  in  the  road  itself — amongst 
whom  was  Solomon  J.  Solomon,  the  most  brilliant  of 
the  younger  men  of  the  day,  who  had  just  made 
quite  a sensation  at  the  Royal  Academy  with  his 
painting  “ Cassandra.” 

Leighton’s  house,  which  has  been  open  to  the  public 
since,  and  can  now  be  visited  on  certain  days,  is  so 
well  known  as  scarcely  to  call  for  any  detailed 
description,  and  photographs  have  been  published 
of  it  scores  of  times.  Out  of  sheer  curiosity  to  see 
what  alterations  had  been  made  since  it  has  been 
practically  turned  into  a museum  and  concert  hall, 
I visited  the  house  a short  time  ago  when  in  the 
neighbourhood.  To  my  surprise  I found  little  or  no 
change,  and  that  it  was  practically  as  I knew  it 
during  the  lifetime  of  the  Master.  I was  quite 
prepared  to  find  it  turned  into  a museum  ; but  it 
was  somewhat  painful  to  me  to  enter  the  familiar 
hall,  to  see  everything  as  it  was  when  I used  to 
visit  Leighton  years  ago.  A picture  or  two  may 
have  been  displaced,  and  the  studio  rearranged 
somewhat  to  adapt  it  for  concert  purposes,  but  apart 
from  this,  to  any  one  who  knew  the  President,  there 
was  little  or  no  change. 

Somehow  to  me  I had  rather  a few  more  years 

25 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


had  elapsed  before  his  sanctum,  on  which  he  lavished 
such  loving  taste,  should  have  been  turned  into  a 
common  show  place  for  a Bank  Holiday  crowd  to 
wander  through  at  will.  If  the  house  had  any 
historic  associations  one  could  understand  it — but 
No.  12  Holland  Park  Road  was  a new  building, 
the  delightful  dwelling-place  of  a very  erudite  and 
sympathetic  artist,  who  had  a big  circle  of  friends 
who  sincerely  admired  and  appreciated  him  and 
mourned  his  loss,  and  therefore,  to  any  one  like 
myself,  who  had  the  privilege  of  his  personal 
acquaintance,  the  endeavour  to  keep  alive  his 
memory  by  making  an  exhibition  of  the  house 
with  all  his  personal  treasures  so  soon  after  his 
death,  seems  almost  a sacrilege.  It  seems  on  a 
par  with  the  modern  vulgar  craze  for  publishing 
letters  and  biographies  of  dead  men  almost  before 
the  sound  of  their  voices  has  gone  from  our  ears,  a 
glaring  instance  of  which  was  shown  in  the  recently 
published  life  of  that  prince  of  good  fellows,  King 
Edward  the  Seventh.  By  all  means  let  us  preserve 
anything  of  interest  concerning  our  great  men  ; but 
let  it  be  for  the  benefit  of  future  generations. 

In  those  days  of  which  I am  writing,  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton  was  one  of  the  most  popular  of  English 
painters,  and  his  Sunday  receptions  were  amongst 
the  attractions  of  the  season,  and  one  met  every 
one  of  note  there.  I had  chosen  a week-day  for 
my  call,  as  I had  learned  that  the  President  only 
received  his  personal  friends  on  Sundays. 

With  a certain  amount  of  trepidation  I rang  the 
bell  at  the  extremely  unpretentious  hall  door,  for 
intuitively  I felt  that  a good  deal  depended  on  my 
visit.  It  was,  I remember,  a lovely  spring  morning, 
one  of  those  days  when  one  feels  glad  to  be  alive ; 
and  as  I waited  in  the  sunshine  I felt  that  it  was 
a happy  idea  on  my  part  having  made  up  my  mind 
to  call  on  so  fine  a day  when  only  a curmudgeon 
could  be  sour  with  his  fellows.  The  door  was  opened 

26 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


by  a man  servant  of  impressive  appearance — just 
the  type  of  servant  one  would  have  expected. 
Leighton  was  said  to  be  so  intimate  a friend  of 
Royalty  and  the  entire  aristocracy  that  it  seemed 
as  though  some  of  his  urbanity  had  shed  itself  on 
his  attendant.  Although  he  could  not  fail  to  per- 
ceive that  I was  a young  man  unversed  in  the 
etiquette  of  visiting  the  President,  there  was  none 
of  the  haughty  disdain  he  might  perhaps  have  been 
permitted  to  display.  I asked  if  Sir  Frederick  was 
at  home. 

“ Sir  Frederick,”  he  told  me  with,  as  I thought,  a 
certain  suggestion  of  deference  in  his  voice,  was 
“ at  home,  but  only  receives  by  appointment,  and  at 
certain  hours.” 

On  my  explaining  that  I had  a letter  of  intro- 
duction he  said  he  would  take  in  my  card  and  the 
letter,  and  perhaps  the  President  would  fix  an 
appointment  for  me  to  call.  He  returned  in  a few 
moments,  and  showing  me  into  an  inner  hall,  said 
that  if  I didn’t  mind  waiting  a little  while,  Sir 
Frederick  would  come  down  and  see  me. 

I will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  famous  Moorish 
chamber  in  which  I found  myself,  for  it  is  practically 
unchanged  to-day — suffice  it  briefly  to  attempt  to 
record  my  impressions  of  that  first  visit.  Accustomed 
though  I was  to  splendour  of  effect  in  the  studios 
and  houses  of  the  great  painters  in  Paris,  I had  never 
seen  anything  to  equal  the  artistic  beauty  of  this 
inner  hall  in  Leighton’s  house.  It  showed  genius  in 
its  conception,  and  the  taste  of  an  artist  and  poet  in 
every  nook  and  corner.  There  was  a sense  of  the 
mystery  and  charm  of  the  East  around  one,  and  the 
silence  was  unbroken  save  for  the  splash  of  a tiny 
fountain  in  a shallow  marble  pool  in  the  centre  of  the 
hall,  whilst  high  above,  suspended  in  the  darkness  of 
the  dome,  a small  lamp  shed  an  uncanny  glimmer  of 
light  on  the  deep  blue  of  the  tiled  walls. 

I was  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  romantic 

27 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


scene,  when  I heard  footsteps,  and  turning  I found 
myself  face  to  face  with  the  President. 

It  was  often  said  that  Leighton  was  far  and  away 
the  best  looking  man  they  had  ever  had  as  President 
of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  I remembered  this  as 
soon  as  I saw  him — as  I don’t  think  it  would  have 
been  possible  to  find  a handsomer  specimen  of  man- 
hood than  he  presented  in  the  ’eighties,  for  he  was 
of  fine  presence,  above  the  average  height,  about 
5 feet  1 1 inches  I should  say,  and  built  in  proportion 
— but  it  was  his  head  chiefly  that  arrested  attention. 
He  was  in  his  fiftieth  year,  and  his  long  hair  and 
pointed  beard,  which  were  just  turning  grey,  gave  him 
a most  striking  appearance.  He  had  the  eye  of  a 
dreamer  and  student.  He  was  the  beau  ideal  painter 
of  tender  subjects  and  beautiful  women,  and  the  most 
brilliant  President  the  Royal  Academy  has  ever  had. 

His  reception  of  me  was  most  unconventional,  and 
put  me  at  once  at  my  ease,  for  he  was  attired  in  an 
old  painting  smock,  and  looked  just  like  any  ordinary 
painter  in  Montmartre.  Holding  out  his  hand  to  me 
he  said  heartily,  “ I am  very  pleased  to  know  you, 
and  glad  to  hear  from  my  old  camarade  G6rome.” 

His  unaffected  simplicity  and  fascination  of  manner 
absolutely  magnetised  me ; he  held  my  hand  whilst 
he  spoke  as  though  henceforth  he  was  my  greatest 
friend,  and  I felt  in  an  instant  that  he  was  the  most 
genuine  man  I had  ever  met.  I forgot  to  mention 
that  the  letter  of  introduction  I brought  with  me 
was  in  accordance  with  French  custom  sealed  up — 
from  his  manner  therefore  it  was  presumable  that 
its  contents  were  not  uncomplimentary  so  far  as  I 
was  concerned. 

He  invited  me  to  be  seated,  and  we^had  an  informal 
chat  on  Paris  and  my  work  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts,  and  he  seemed  interested  to  hear  about  friends 
of  his  I knew,  who  had  become  great  painters,  for  he 
himself  had  studied  in  Paris.  He  told  me  that  he 
went  over  as  often  as  he  could,  and  what  a good 

28 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


thing  it  was  to  keep  in  touch  with  one’s  Alma  Mater, 
and  then  I recollected  I had  disturbed  him  at  his 
work,  so  I hinted  at  it  and  got  up  to  go. 

“Yes,  it  is  time  I got  back  to  my  model,  but  come 
and  see  me  again  whenever  you  like,”  he  said  with 
the  utmost  geniality,  as  he  shook  me  warmly  by  the 
hand.  “ Sunday  afternoons  I am  always  at  home  ; 
but  if  it  is  important  you  will  generally  have  a 
chance  of  catching  me  in  between  the  lights.  I shall 
be  pleased  to  know  how  you  get  on  in  London.” 

As  I came  away  from  the  house,  delighted  with 
his  reception  of  me,  I realised  that  Leighton’s 
inimitable  charm  of  manner  and  sympathetic  voice 
were  part  and  parcel  of  the  genius  of  the  man,  and 
that  learned  one  never  so  hard  this  suaviter  in  modo 
is  innate  and  cannot  be  acquired,  and  this  was 
undoubtedly  the  secret  of  his  popularity  with  all 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  mention  as  an  instance 
of  his  unfailing  courtesy,  that  he  never,  judging  from 
my  own  experience,  left  a letter  unanswered  even 
for  a day.  At  the  time  of  which  I am  writing, 
before  the  advent  of  the  telephone  and  the  almost 
universal  use  of  the  typewriter,  he  apparently  did 
all  his  correspondence  himself,  the  arduous  nature 
of  this  task  may  therefore  be  imagined  considering 
what  the  magnitude  of  his  correspondence  must  have 
been.  This  remarkable  trait  in  his  character  always 
impressed  me,  and  I have  often  contrasted  him  in  my 
mind  with  other  men  of  importance  I have  met  since, 
who  consider  the  answering  of  letters  as  a subject 
that  requires  no  manner  of  regard  whatever. 

From  this  day  I felt  that  I could  look  on  Leighton 
as  a personal  friend,  and  I had  no  hesitation  in  taking 
advantage  of  his  cordial  invitation  to  call  on  him. 
Sunday,  as  he  had  told  me  was  his  jour  de  reception 
invariably,  and  the  house  and  studio  were  usually  full 
of  interesting  and  distinguished  people  who  wandered 
around  the  place  as  they  pleased.  All  the  work  on 

29 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


which  he  had  been  engaged  during  the  week  would 
be  on  view,  and  he  gladly  welcomed  criticism  if 
intelligently  given. 

As  is  well  known,  Leighton  was  a most  accom- 
plished linguist,  and  spoke  several  languages  abso- 
lutely fluently  and  with  perfect  accent  — not  the 
least  interesting  feature  therefore  of  these  informal 
Sunday  receptions  in  the  studio  was  to  watch  the 
remarkable  facility  with  which  he  kept  up  conversa- 
tions with  foreigners  who  happened  to  be  visiting 
him.  He  never  seemed  to  be  taken  aback  whether 
it  was  French,  German,  Italian  and,  I believe,  Spanish  ; 
it  all  came  quite  natural  to  him  apparently,  together 
with  the  distinctive  mannerism  of  each. 

A rather  amusing  anecdote  was  told  of  a brother 
Royal  Academician  of  Leighton’s  who  determined 
to  emulate  his  example  and  also  become  a linguist, 
so  as  a start  he  took  a holiday  and  went  over  to 
Paris  and  remained  there  for  exactly  six  weeks — 
of  course  he  could  not  learn  the  language  in  the 
time,  and  he  never  returned  to  France ; but  from 
then  till  the  day  of  his  death,  many  years  after,  he 
always  spoke  English  with  a French  accent! 

Leighton’s  “ Show  Sunday,”  before  his  pictures 
went  to  the  Academy,  was  one  of  the  events  of 
the  season.  Holland  Park  Road  would  be  quite 
blocked  with  carriages  that  afternoon,  and  the  crowd 
would  be  so  great  that  one  could  scarcely  move.  I 
often  used  to  wonder  how  many  of  all  those  people 
he  really  knew ; but  every  one  seemed  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  his  urbanity  never  deserted 
him,  tiring  though  it  must  have  been  to  keep  it  up 
for  several  hours. 

These  glimpses  of  smart  English  society  were  to 
me  quite  a novelty,  as  in  Paris  my  time,  when  not 
in  the  Bohemian  artistic  world,  had  been  spent 
mostly  amongst  bourgeois  folk  who,  although  for  the 
most  part  extremely  wealthy,  were  very  simple  in 
their  tastes,  and  abhorred  anything  in  the  nature  of 

30 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


a “ Society  Show.”  Somehow  it  struck  me  that  too 
many  of  the  visitors  on  these  Academy  Sundays 
attended  for  no  other  reason  but  that  it  was  the 
fashion. 

As  was  well  known,  Leighton  had  a strong  predilec- 
tion for  painting  beautiful  women,  and  on  one  or  two 
occasions  when  I went  to  his  studio  I met  his  models 
coming  away,  and  they  all  appeared  lovely  creatures 
to  my  eyes  — though  perhaps  that  was  because  I 
guessed  they  had  been  sitting  to  the  great  man.  In 
this  connection  I remember  a funny  story  concerning 
Leighton  and  one  of  his  models.  A girl  who  used 
to  sit  for  him  for  the  nude  gave  up  sitting  and  went 
on  the  stage,  and  got  on  so  well  that  eventually  she 
married  into  the  aristocracy.  One  day,  sometime 
after,  she  called  on  Leighton  — driving  up  to  the 
house  in  a smart  carriage  and  pair.  Kemp,  the  man 
servant,  not  recognising  the  quondam  model,  and 
probably  much  impressed  by  her  splendid  equipage 
and  gorgeous  appearance,  ushered  her  up  at  once  to 
the  studio,  where  she  burst  in  on  the  President  with 
scant  ceremony.  He  turned  and  stared  with  surprise 
at  the  extravagantly  attired  person  who  had  come 
in  without  waiting  to  be  announced.  There  was  a 
momentary  silence,  then  he  bowed  and  asked  with 
his  most  courtly  air,  “ To  what  am  I indebted,  madam, 
for  the  honour  of  your  visit  ? ” 

“ Oh  ! nothing,”  she  replied  excitedly,  “ except  that 
I thought  I would  like  to  see  you  again — don’t  you 
know  me  ? I used  to  sit  to  you  for  the  figure.” 

“ Oh  ! is  that  all  ? — then  strip,”  said  the  President, 
without  moving  a muscle. 


3i 


CHAPTER  IV 


St  John’s  Wood  in  the  mid  ’eighties — Curious  state  of  things — Art  and 
• gallantry  — The  fastest  district  of  London  — Distinguished  men 
living  there — The  artist  colony  of  St  John’s  Wood  as  compared 
with  Montmartre — The  “Blenheim” — The  “Eyre  Arms” — Visits  to 
friends’  studios — An  amusing  incident — Unexpected  visitors — The 
trick  bell-cord — A determined  guest — A plethora  of  jelly — Models 
persistency  in  calling — Families  of  models — Costume  models — 
Models  for  the  nude — “Showing”  their  figure — Different  ways 
of  undressing  of  the  French  and  the  Italian  models — Amusing 
episode  in  the  studio — The  two  girls,  a shock  for  the  gas  inspector 
— A novel  evening  bodice. 


St  John’s  Wood  in  the  mid  ’eighties  presented 
a very  curious  study  ; it  was  without  a doubt  far  and 
away  the  most  artistic  quarter  of  London.  There 
were  artists’  colonies  in  Haverstock  Hill,  Kensington 
and  Chelsea,  but  St  John’s  Wood  was  the  artists’ 
district  par  excellence , and  many  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished painters  of  those  days  had  their  studios 
there.  At  the  same  time  it  was  the  most  favoured 
place  of  residence  of  ladies  of  easy  virtue. 

This  juxtaposition  of  art  and  gallantry  is  not 
altogether  an  unusual  coincidence,  for  it  exists  in 
most  big  cities,  where  there  is  an  art  centre.  In 
Paris  it  was,  and  is  still,  quite  remarkable,  and  in 
Montmartre,  for  instance,  Phidias  is  the  neighbour  of 
Delilah  in  almost  every  street,  and  lives  on  very  good 
terms  with  her  in  the  bargain.  But  whilst  this 
state  of  affairs  is  not  altogether  surprising  across  the 
Channel,  where  a broader  or  rather  more  lax  view  of 
such  things  prevails  — it  is  extremely  difficult  to 

32 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


explain  how  it  ever  came  to  be  tolerated  in  sancti- 
monious old  London. 

I have  often  tried  to  fathom  the  reasons  that 
prompted  a number  of  thoroughly  respectable  gentle- 
men of  the  palette — with  wives  and  families — to  go 
deliberately  and  reside  in  what  was  undoubtedly 
then  the  fastest  district  of  London.  The  fact  of 
its  almost  rural  seclusion  may  partially  explain  it, 
for  the  open  country  was  close  at  hand  to  St  John’s 
Wood  in  the  ’eighties. 

In  Montmartre  the  unmarried  painters  usually  lived 
openly  en  menage  with  their  mattresses  or  their 
amies , and  made  no  compliment  about  it ; but  such 
goings-on  would  have  been  considered  most  repre- 
hensible in  London,  and  therefore  few  of  the  artists 
risked  it,  if  they  wished  to  have  any  pretension  to 
be  looked  upon  as  decent  members  of  society  — 
though  it  was  an  open  secret  that  all  was  not 
exactly  monastic  in  many  of  the  bachelor’s  studios. 
But  of  this  more  anon. 

Meanwhile  it  may  be  of  interest  in  order  to  con- 
vey some  idea  of  the  artistic  character  of  the  district 
to  name  a few  of  the  men  who  lived  there  in  my  time. 
It  will  be  seen  that  it  was  a thoroughly  representa- 
tive gathering  of  some  of  the  best  known  men  of 
that  period. 

Frederick  Goodall,  R.A.,  was  in  Avenue  Road  ; 
close  by  was  Alma  Tadema,  whose  house  and  studio 
were  badly  damaged  by  the  explosion  of  a barge  on 
the  Canal  opposite. 

In  Cavendish  Place  was  one  of  the  most  popular 
painters  of  the  day,  Thomas  Faed,  R.A. 

In  St  John’s  Wood  Road  were  H.  W.  B.  Davis,  R.A., 
who  had  Landseer’s  old  house;  John  Pettie,  R.A., 
Seymour  Lucas,  R.A.,  and  Phil  Morris,  A.R.A. 

Stacey  Marks,  the  R.A.,  who  achieved  fame  and 
fortune  by  his  quaint  pictures  of  storks  and  pelicans 
and  other  grotesque  birds  at  the  Zoo,  was  in  Hamilton 
Terrace,  and  close  by  him  was  Yeend  King  just 

33  C 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


beginning  to  make  his  reputation  as  a landscape 
painter. 

Just  round  the  corner,  in  Grove  End  Road,  was 
Phillip  Calderon,  R.A.,  and  further  on  in  the  same 
road  was  James  Tissot,  the  French  artist,  perhaps 
one  of  the  most  talented  and  original  painters  at 
the  time ; he  had  a house  which  was  afterwards 
purchased  by  Alma  Tadema.  His  garden  was  said 
to  be  the  most  picturesque  and  most  extensive  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  there  was  a small  lake  in  it 
with  water  lilies  and  rushes  on  it,  which  he  depicted 
in  many  of  his  pictures.  Tissot,  so  rumour  went, 
lived  there  very  much  a la  Franqaise , and  as  he  always 
painted  his  mistress,  she  was  usually  referred  to 
as  “ his  favourite  model,”  for  decorum’s  sake.  The 
goody  folk  round  about  were  very  scandalised  at 
his  household  arrangements  I remember — they  prob- 
ably looked  on  the  high  wall  surrounding  his  place 
as  enclosing  a veritable  abode  of  iniquity. 

M‘Whirter  was  at  the  corner  of  Abbey  Road,  and 
in  Carlton  Hill  close  by  was  J.  D.  Watson,  one  of 
the  greatest  personalities  of  the  Bohemian  world  at 
that  time.  He  was  a splendid  looking  man,  with  a 
fine  figure  and  handsome  aquiline  features,  reminding 
one  somewhat  of  a youngish  Don  Quixote.  He  was 
quite  a genius  in  his  way ; it  was  one  of  the  things 
no  one  could  understand,  why  he  was  never  elected 
to  the  Royal  Academy.  His  work  was  of  the  School 
of  Pinwell  and  Fred  Walker,  and  as  a painter  he  was 
far  ahead  of  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries.  He 
gave  me  the  impression  of  being  a disappointed  man, 
yet  in  spite  of  his  always  being  a bitter  cynic  he  was 
very  popular  amongst  the  artists  in  the  Wood. 

Laslett  J.  Pott,  whose  studio  was  close  by,  was 
also  quite  a character  in  his  way,  though  not  a great 
painter.  He  was  a major  in  the  volunteers,  and 
looked  a good  deal  more  like  a soldier  than  an 
artist — in  fact  it  was  a little  weakness  of  his  to  be 
taken  for  an  officer  of  the  Regulars,  and  certainly  his 

34 


“ HIS  SPLENDID  MOUSTACHE  AND  HIS  MARTIAL 
BEARING.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


splendid  moustache  and  his  martial  bearing  gave  him 
quite  the  appearance  of  the  guardsman  of  the  period. 

All  along  Grove  End  Road,  and  in  the  turnings 
off  it,  artists  were  to  be  found,  and  all  more  or  less 
well  known. 

In  Melina  Place  was  Johnny  Parker,  the  water 
colour  painter,  and  across  the  way  in  Elm  Tree  Road 
was  Ernest  Parton,  who  had  just  made  a big  hit  at 
the  Royal  Academy  and  had  his  picture  purchased 
by  the  Chantry  Fund  ; and  Ethel  Wright,  one  of  the 
prettiest  and  most  talented  of  the  lady  artists,  not 
only  of  the  neighbourhood  but  of  London,  who  lived 
in  a gem  of  an  old-world  house  with  a studio  and  a 
garden.  She  had  a chaperon  always  staying  with 
her  as  she  was  far  too  young  to  be  living  alone  in 
St  John’s  Wood — even  under  the  aegis  of  Art.  She 
used  to  give  delightful  little  dinner-parties  to  her 
artistic  friends,  amongst  whom  I had  the  pleasure 
of  being  counted. 

In  Waverley  Place  were  amongst  others  Delapoer 
Downing  and  Herbert  Lyndon,  who  shared  a studio  ; 
and  Tom  Hemy,  a clever  painter  of  marine  subjects, 
but  who  was  over-shadowed  by  the  greater  reputation 
of  his  brother,  Napier  ; Onslow  Ford,  the  sculptor, 
was  at  the  corner  of  Acacia  Road ; whilst  a few 
hundred  yards  away  in  Finchley  Road  were  Dendy 
Sadler  and  two  Royal  Academicians,  Briton  Riviere 
and  Burgess. 

There  were  groups  of  studios  off  Queen’s  Road, 
Finchley  Road,  Marlboro’  Road,  Carlton  Hill,  and 
other  streets  where  were  younger  men,  many  of 
whom  made  names  for  themselves  since.  I have, 
however,  enumerated  sufficient  to  give  some  slight 
idea  of  the  district  in  those  days.  It  was  a unique 
little  colony  of  artists,  the  like  of  which  could  not,  I 
think,  exist  to-day. 

Although  there  was  no  fortune  to  be  made  out 
of  painting,  many  of  the  big  artists  were  doing 
extremely  well,  and  that  encouraged  the  less  known 

35 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


men  to  persevere  in  their  efforts.  Modern  art  had 
not  yet  been  ousted  by  Old  Masters,  nor  illustration 
by  photography. 

Looking  back  on  those  years  it  seems  to  me  that 
every  one  took  life  easier,  even  one’s  pleasures  less 
boisterously,  and  one  had  more  time  to  oneself 
than  nowadays — though  perhaps  that  was  because 
you  were  young  then  and  with  all  your  life  before 
you.  But  anyhow  there  is  no  doubt  the  temptation 
to  gad  about  was  not  so  great,  and  I soon  found 
that  if  St  John’s  Wood  did  not  offer  the  same  wild 
attractions  I had  got  accustomed  to  in  Paris,  it  had 
its  compensations  in  the  shape  of  plenty  of  pretty 
girls  to  come  and  sit  for  one,  and  lots  of  good  fellows 
who  were  glad  if  you  dropped  in  to  have  a smoke 
and  a yarn  after  work,  for  I was  not  long  in  getting 
to  know  several  of  my  confreres. 

There  were  one  or  two  places  where  one  was  sure 
to  run  across  brother  brushes  ; the  “ Blenheim,”  which 
was  quite  close  to  my  studio  in  Marlboro’  Hill,  or 
the  “Eyre  Arms,”  a little  way  off,  of  which  I shall 
have  plenty  to  relate  further  on. 

These  chance  rencontres  with  men  who  had 
studios  near  you  gave  an  additional  charm  to  the 
artistic  life  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  reminded  one 
not  a little  of  living  in  a big  village  where  every  one 
soon  gets  to  know  every  one  else.  Men  would 
“ put  on  a pipe  ” of  a morning,  and  stroll  round  to 
friends’  studios  very  often  for  no  better  reason  than 
that  they  didn’t  feel  up  to  work  yet,  and  wanted  to 
while  away  an  hour  or  so,  and  unless  one  was  busy 
oneself,  or  wanted  to  be  alone,  it  was  very  pleasant 
having  some  one  calling  to  see  you  at  any  odd 
time.  Moreover,  it  gave  opportunities  for  exchange 
of  ideas  which  were  often  very  acceptable.  One 
was  not  old  enough  in  those  days  to  have  “ axes  to 
grind,”  and  one  got  franker  criticism  than  one  gets 
as  one  grows  older,  when  the  stress  of  competition 
and  jealousy  begins  to  develop  itself. 

36 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


‘‘Come  round,  old  chap,  for  a few  minutes  and 
have  a smoke,  and  tell  me  how  my  picture  is  getting 
on,”  was  what  you  heard  almost  every  day,  and  very 
often  one  was  glad  for  the  excuse  of  a stroll  out, 
especially  if  it  was  a fine,  sunny  morning,  and  the 
studio  appeared  a bit  stuffy  in  consequence. 

Whilst  these  informal  and  unexpected  visits  from 
one’s  neighbours  were  very  pleasant,  they  were  apt 
at  times  to  lead  to  somewhat  awkward  predicaments, 
and  this  reminds  me  of  a funny  incident  which  is 
worth  telling. 

An  artist  who  had  a studio  not  far  from  me 
was  very  fond  of  the  ladies — not  an  unusual  state  of 
affairs,  perhaps,  especially  amongst  the  knights  of 
the  palette,  but  he  was  particularly  strong  on  this 
point,  and  was  seldom  without  a petticoat  near  him. 
One  fine,  hot  summer  afternoon  a gteat  pal  of  his 
went  round  to  see  him,  and  finding  the  door  of  the 
studio  ajar,  walked  in  unceremoniously  and  without 
knocking  first.  To  his  great  amusement  he  dis- 
covered his  friend  on  the  divan  with  a lovely  girl 
in  diaphanous  drapery  in  his  arms.  This  situation 
was  certainly  compromising,  and  the  unbidden  visitor 
was  about  discreetly  to  retire  so  as  not  to  disturb 
the  two  inamorata  who  were  in  the  ecstasies  of 
spooning.  He  was  hoping  that  his  entrance  would 
not  be  noticed,  but  in  backing  out  he  knocked 
against  something  which  caused  the  couple  to  turn 
round  with  guilty  haste,  and  the  lady  gave  a little 
scream. 

The  visitor  apologised  profusely  for  his  intrusion, 
whereat  his  friend,  seeing  who  it  was,  got  into  a 
violent  rage,  and  called  out  to  him,  “ How  dare 
you  come  in  when  you  see  I am  engaged ! ” 

So  irritating  were  these  unexpected  visits  at  times 
when  one  wanted  particularly  to  be  alone,  that  a man 
I knew  had  fixed  up  an  ingenious  arrangement  by 
which  he  could  ring  the  street  door  bell  without  going 
outside.  There  was  a sort  of  wooden  pedal  at  the 

37 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


side  of  a paint  cabinet,  attached  to  this  was  a cord 
connecting  with  the  bell  wire ; when  he  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  a bore  he  would  stroll  nonchalantly 
as  though  to  get  something  from  the  cabinet,  and 
the  rest  was  easy.  There  would  be  a loud  ring 
at  the  bell,  he  would  go  to  see  who  it  was,  remain 
away  for  a few  minutes,  and  on  returning  would 
say,  “ Awfully  sorry,  old  chap,  but  I have  got  to 
go  out  at  once,  some  one  has  sent  for  me,”  or 
anything  else  that  came  into  his  mind  at  the 
moment.  Then  putting  on  his  hat  he  would  add, 
if  he  saw  his  visitor  had  not  taken  the  hint,  “ I 
am  afraid  I shall  have  to  turn  you  out,  as  I do 
not  know  what  time  I shall  be  back.” 

Unwelcome  visitors  were,  however,  not  always 
got  rid  of  in  spite  of  the  bell,  and  he  used  to  tell 
of  an  incident  that  occurred  to  him  on  one  occasion 
in  particular. 

He  was  expecting  his  best  girl  when  there  was  a 
ring  at  the  bell,  and  on  going  to  the  door  he  found  it 
was  the  mother  of  a damsel  who  had  sat  to  him  in 
a friendly  way  for  a picture.  The  family  had  been 
very  kind  to  him  once  when  he  was  ill,  and  shown 
him  a good  deal  of  hospitality  at  different  times ; 
so,  although  it  was  very  annoying  and  awkward 
the  old  lady  turning  up  at  this  particular  moment, 
he  had  to  pretend  to  be  delighted  to  see  her,  and 
asked  her  in.  Meanwhile  he  glanced  surreptitiously 
at  his  watch,  and  discovered  he  only  had  about 
twenty  minutes  to  spare.  As  the  old  lady  had 
always  accompanied  her  daughter  when  she  was 
sitting  for  him,  she  knew  the  studio  well.  She  had 
a lot  of  parcels  under  her  arm,  and  in  she  walked 
and  flopped  down  contentedly  into  the  most  comfort- 
able armchair,  saying  cheerfully,  to  the  artist’s  horror, 
“ Well,  it’s  lucky  finding  you  in,  as  I am  positively 
dying  for  a cup  of  tea.  I have  been  shopping  all 
day  and  feel  knocked  up,  so  I said  to  myself,  if 
George  is  in  I know  he  will  be  a good  Samaritan 

38 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


and  let  me  sit  quietly  in  his  studio  until  it  is  time 
to  go  to  the  station  to  catch  my  train.” 

“ Catch  your  train,”  repeated  George  mechanically. 
“ What  time  does  your  train  go  ? ” 

“Oh,  there’s  one  at  5.5  (it  was  then  past  4)  and 
there  is  not  another  after  that  till  7.15.” 

The  artist  made  up  his  mind  instantly  that,  bar 
unforeseen  circumstances,  she  would  catch  the  5.5 — 
but,  of  course,  he  didn’t  tell  her  this.  So  with  much 
alacrity  he  put  the  kettle  on  the  stove  with  as  little 
water  in  it  as  possible,  so  that  it  would  boil  quickly, 
laid  the  tea  things,  and  altogether  was  so  smart 
about  it  that  the  dear  old  lady  chaffingly  suggested 
he  had  missed  his  vocation — he  ought  to  have  been 
a parlour-maid.  Well,  he  hurried  her  through  tea 
as  rapidly  as  he  decently  could,  and  bethought 
him  of  the  bell  trick,  and  he  went  out  in  response 
to  the  ring.  In  a few  minutes  he  returned  with  an 
assumed  air  of  much  annoyance,  preached  the  usual 
yarn,  and  told  her  how  awfully  sorry  he  was  that 
he  had  to  go  out  at  once,  and  as  he  was  not  certain 
what  time  he  was  coming  back  he  thought  he  had 
better  put  her  in  a cab  and  she  would  just  catch 
the  5.5.  His  feelings  may  be  imagined  when 
she  replied  that  she  felt  so  tired  that  she  had 
unbuttoned  her  boots,  and  she  didn’t  mind  a bit  him 
leaving  her  alone  in  the  studio,  and  that  she  would 
have  a sleep  and  tidy  herself  up  and  catch  the  7.15 — 
she  knew  he  was  a very  busy  man,  so  she  would 
forgive  him  running  away  and  leaving  her,  etc. 
Here  was  a pretty  predicament,  for  what  could  he 
do,  he  could  not  very  well  tell  her  she  must  go,  so 
he  murmured  something  about  not  liking  to  leave 
her  alone  there. 

“Never  you  mind  about  me,”  she  replied,  with  a 
merry  old  lady’s  laugh.  “ I can  look  after  myself, 
and  I shall  probably  make  myself  another  cup  of 
tea  before  I go — so  you  run  away  and  don’t  worry 
about  me.”  There  was  no  help  for  it,  so  out  he 

39 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


had  to  go,  and  he  strolled  up  and  down  outside 
till  his  girl,  who  was  never  punctual,  turned  up,  and 
he  told  her  all  about  what  had  happened,  and  they 
had  to  walk  about  the  streets  till  the  old  lady 
had  gone. 

The  denouement  was  too  funny  for  words ; when 
he  got  back  into  the  studio  he  found  a sweet  little 
note,  that  the  dear  old  soul  had  noticed  that 
George  wasn’t  looking  quite  himself  (probably  a 
little  worried !),  ^nd  having  luckily  the  ingredients 
with  her  that  she  was  taking  back  with  her  into 
the  country,  she  had  spent  the  time,  when  alone 
in  the  studio,  in  making  him  a little  invalid  jelly 
— and  adding  that  he  must  leave  it  to  set  till  the 
following  day,  when  she  would  look  in  to  see  if 
he  was  better.  George  was  naturally  pleased  at 
her  kind  thought.  Imagine  his  horror  when  the 
following  morning  his  charwoman  came  to  him  and 
asked  what  she  should  use  for  his  breakfast  as  all 
the  cups  and  basins  were  full  of  some  “ yellow 
muck,”  which  perhaps,  she  added,  he  didn’t  want 
disturbed.  The  dear  old  lady  had  made  enough 
jelly  to  supply  a military  hospital ; but  the  worst 
of  it  was,  it  hadn’t  set,  and  showed  no  signs  of 
doing  so.  Here  was  a pretty  predicament,  as  he 
didn’t  like  to  throw  it  away,  as  she  was  coming  to 
see  him  again  that  day.  As  far  as  I remember,  he 
drank  his  tea  that  morning  out  of  the  soap-dish. 

The  most  persistent  of  visitors  at  all  times  were 
the  models ; all  day  and  at  any  hour  they  would 
be  calling.  As  the  studio  I had  taken  was  a very 
well-known  one,  and  had  been  occupied  for  several 
years  by  figure  artists,  a day  never  passed 
without  several  rings  at  the  bell  from  would  - be 
sitters  — and  generally  females.  Most  of  them 
seemed  to  live  in  Camden  Town,  and  they  hunted 
in  packs  apparently.  A very  large  percentage  had 
little  pretension  to  good  looks,  and  had  evidently 
tried  to  take  to  sitting  as  an  easier  way  of  earning 

40 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


money  than  going  into  service.  After  the  novelty 
had  worn  off,  one  got  very  tired  of  answering  rings 
at  the  bell,  when  one  happened  to  be  busy,  to  find 
some  dowdy,  ill  - favoured  individual  outside,  and 
to  hear  the  invariable,  “ Do  you  want  a model, 
sir?”  It  was  a mystery  to  me  how  the  majority 
managed  to  make  a living  at  it  at  all ; in  Paris 
they  would  not  have  earned  a crust.  The  patience 
they  displayed  was  often  exemplary,  for  it  must 
have  been  very  disheartening  going  from  studio  to 
studio,  and  so  seldom  getting  anything  out  of  it 
all — except  a rough  answer  when  the  artist  was  in 
a temper  at  being  disturbed. 

Male  models  were  also  calling  persistently,  though 
there  didn’t  seem  to  be  so  many  of  them.  They 
were  not  nearly  so  picturesque  as  the  ones  you 
saw  in  Paris,  as  they  were  generally  down  at  the 
heel,  shabby  individuals  of  uncertain  age,  who  looked 
like  broken-down  actors,  and  who  probably  divided 
their  time  between  “ supering  ” at  theatres  and  sitting 
for  artists.  There  was  an  oldish  fellow  I remember, 
who  used  to  come  round,  he  wasn’t  anything  to  look 
at,  and  hadn’t  got  a hair  on  his  head — in  fact,  he 
was  as  bald  as  a billiard  ball,  yet  he  called  himself 
a model ; what  he  used  to  sit  for  I could  never 
imagine.  There  were,  however,  two  or  three  who 
were  quite  characters  in  their  way — one  in  particular 
with  a very  fine  head.  He  was  an  old  seafaring 
man,  and  eventually  sat  for  the  doctor  in  Sir  Luke 
Filde’s  famous  picture. 

Many  artists  would  fix  notices  outside  their  doors, 
“No  models  required,”  and  one  I knew,  who  was  a 
bit  of  a wag,  went  so  far  as  to  put — “ No  models, 
hawkers,  or  dogs  admitted — dustmen  may  call.”  Still 
this  didn’t  deter  them,  for  they  were  a determined 
lot,  and  would  ring  the  bell  at  all  hazards. 

It  was  so  seldom  that  any  really  beautiful  women 
called  that  one  often  wondered  where  the  artists 
found  the  lovely  faces  they  painted  in  their 

4i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


pictures ; but  it  was  probably  the  same  as  I noticed 
in  Paris  — an  exceptionally  good  - looking  model 
never  had  occasion  to  go  round  asking  for  work, 
so  unless  she  had  an  introduction  she  never  called 
to  see  you,  she  got  all  the  sittings  she  could  manage 
among  her  own  clientele.  Apart  from  those  girls, 
who,  as  I have  suggested,  probably  took  up  sitting 
instead  of  going  into  service,  there  were  many  who 
had  been  brought  up  as  models,  and  who  came 
from  families  who  had  been  all  models.  There 
were  several  girls  of  this  description  who  were 
quite  well  known  among  the  artists — they  had  been 
posing  practically  since  they  were  old  enough  to 
sit  up,  and  if  they  were  not  beautiful,  at  least  they 
made  excellent  and  reliable  models,  and  could 
therefore  always  make  a living  at  it.  They  were 
in  great  request  for  drapery,  or  any  pose  requiring 
exceptional  steady  sitting.  Most  of  them  sat  for 
the  figure,  and  it  was  often  quite  amusing  to  me 
at  first  to  note  the  businesslike  method  in  which 
they  acted.  As  I was  a newcomer,  and  a possible 
employer,  they  would  always  suggest  “ showing  their 
figure  ” when  they  called,  if  I happened  to  ask  them 
in  to  take  their  address.  It  didn’t  seem  to  make 
the  slightest  difference  to  them  how  chilly  the 
studio  was. 

“ That  doesn’t  matter,”  they  would  often  say  ; “ I’ll 
show  it  you  now  while  I am  here,  and  then  you 
will  know  what  it  is  like,  and  you  can  make  a note 
of  it  in  your  model  book,”  and  often  before  one 
could  stop  them  they  would  start  undressing.  Many 
would  look  round  for  a screen  or  curtain  to  disrobe 
behind,  but  others  treated  the  process  in  so  business- 
like a manner  that  it  made  no  difference  to  them 
taking  off  their  clothes  in  the  middle  of  the  studio. 
They  often  seemed  to  wear  specially  made  dresses 
and  underclothes  which  seemed  to  come  undone  as 
if  by  magic — a button  here,  a hook  there,  and  the 
whole  lot  was  off  in  an  instant. 

42 


Bit  permission  of  R.  Sondier 
MOST  OF  THEM  SAT  FOR  THE  FIGURE.” 


J.M.P 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


It  used  to  be  said  in  the  Paris  studios  that  you 
can  always  distinguish  between  the  French  and  the 
Italian  models  by  the  way  they  take  off  their 
chemise.  The  French  girl  invariably  lets  hers  fall 
daintily  to  the  ground  round  her  feet,  and  steps 
out  of  it,  whereas  the  Italian,  on  the  contrary,  takes 
it  off  carelessly  over  her  head.  I was  reminded  of 
this  by  the  way  the  English  models  disrobed — they 
did  it  usually  with  a sort  of  self-consciousness  which 
seldom  had  either  the  grace  of  the  Frenchwoman 
or  the  abandon  of  the  Italian. 

A peculiar  episode  comes  back  to  me  in  this 
connection  ; it  makes  me  smile  even  now  when  I 
think  of  it.  One  morning  two  models  called,  and, 
as  I was  alone,  and  they  were  not  bad  - looking 
girls,  I asked  them  in  to  take  their  addresses. 
Somewhat  to  my  surprise  they  both  offered  to  show 
me  their  figures  there  and  then  to  “save  time,”  as 
they  put  it,  so,  as  I was  not  expecting  anybody,  I 
told  them  they  could  undress  behind  the  curtains 
which  masked  the  alcove  which  I used  as  a bed- 
room. They  had  just  left  me  when  there  came  a 
ring  at  the  bell,  and  I found  it  was  the  gas  inspector, 
who  had  called  to  see  me  with  reference  to  a fault 
in  the  gas-cooking  stove.  We  stood  talking  out- 
side for  a moment  on  the  matter,  and  then,  without 
thinking  of  what  I was  doing,  I asked  him  to  come 
into  the  studio.  He  had  just  finished  looking  at 
the  stove,  and  we  were  coming  out  of  the  inner 
room,  when  suddenly  a voice  called  out,  “ Shall  we 
come  in?”  For  the  moment  I clean  forgot  about 
the  two  models,  and  thinking  I had  left  the  studio 
door  open  I said,  “ Who’s  there  ? Come  in  ! ” The 
curtains  of  the  alcove  were  parted  and  in  walked 
two  nude  girls,  and  stood  like  statues  in  the  middle 
of  the  studio.  The  inspector  stared  in  blank  amaze- 
ment at  the  vision  before  him,  as  well  he  might,  for 
it  was  as  unexpected  as  it  was  pleasing,  as  both  the 
models  had  lovely  figures.  He  had  the  presence  of 

43 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


mind,  however,  to  hide  his  embarrassment,  and  didn’t 
utter  a word ; for  all  the  curiosity  he  displayed  he 
might  have  been  an  artist  himself,  but  the  look  on 
his  face  spoke  volumes. 

After  giving  one  or  two  different  poses  the  girls 
asked  if  that  would  do,  and  could  they  dress  again. 
Of  course  I told  them  to  do  so,  and  they  went  back 
behind  the  curtains.  Whilst  they  were  getting  into 
their  clothes  the  inspector,  with  a snigger,  whispered  to 
me  that  he  “ must  really  take  up  art  as  a ’obby ! ” 

One  of  the  best  looking  of  the  women  who  used 
to  come  round  and  ask  for  sittings  had  hit  on  quite 
a novel  idea.  I had  been  told  of  it,  but  the  first 
time  she  called  I forgot  it,  so  her  dress  gave  me 
a curious  surprise.  She  told  me  she  didn’t  sit  for 
the  whole  figure,  but  merely  for  the  bust,  which  she 
added  was  said  by  artists  to  be  very  fine.  She 
would  show  it  me.  I told  her  not  to  trouble,  as  I 
was  not  in  want  of  a model  just  at  the  moment; 
but  she  was  not  to  be  deterred.  She  was  wearing 
a long  rough  ulster  and  a grey  skirt.  To  slip  off 
the  ulster  was  the  work  of  a moment,  when  to  my 
surprise  she  was  wearing  a black  evening  bodice  cut 
so  low  as  to  completely  display  her  bosoms.  She 
certainly  had  a magnificent  neck  and  shoulders  and 
figure,  so  she  was  perhaps  justified  in  wishing  to 
display  it,  though  the  manner  was  singular  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  and  far  more  suggestive  than  the 
entirely  nude  form  would  have  been. 

But  then,  what  elsewhere  might  appear  uncon- 
ventional and  even  indecent,  is  in  studio  life,  as  I 
shall  try  to  show  as  I go  along,  looked  upon  as 
of  ordinary  occurrence. 


44 


CHAPTER  V 


Models  as  a class — Love  in  the  studio — An  awkward  contretemps — An 
amusing  incident — Earnings  of  models — The  temptation  to  go 
wrong — Black  sheep — Artists  marry  models — Jealous  wives — Some 
amusing  incidents — Love  resuscitated — The  “ engaged”  couple — 
Amateur  models — Chance  acquaintances — Some  amusing  incidents 
— Risks  one  ran — An  exciting  adventure. 


Lots  of  people,  I found,  imagined  because  a girl 
sat  for  the  “altogether”  that  she  must  be  a bad 
lot,  and  this  I was  not  long  in  discovering  un- 
doubtedly was  a very  erroneous  impression,  for  as  a 
' rule  models  I came  across  were  a very  respectable 
and  hardworking  class.  Anyhow  that  was  always 
my  experience,  especially  with  those  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  profession  and  been  at  it  practically 
all  their  lives.  An  artist  who  would  have  ventured 
to  take  liberties  with  his  model  ran  the  risk  not 
only  of  seeing  her  put  on  her  clothes  and  walk  out 
of  the  studio,  but  also  of  her  telling  every  one  of 
his  goings-on.  Of  course  I do  not  wish  to  infer 
that  there  were  no  tender  episodes  in  the  studios, 
as  there  were  doubtless  many  models  who  were  in 
love  with  artists  they  sat  for,  and  vice  versd  ; that 
was  only  human  nature  after  all.  I refer  to  men  who 
might  have  had  the  idea  that  a girl  sitting  to  him 
for  the  figure  was  “ up  to  anything,”  and  attempted 
to  act  accordingly ; more  often  than  not  he  found 
out  his  mistake,  and  had  sometimes  to  make  very 
humble  apologies  to  avoid  a scene. 

I remember  something  that  an  artist  friend  of 
mine  told  me  happened  to  him  on  one  occasion,  and 

45 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


which  taught  him  a lesson  he  never  forgot.  A very 
pretty  girl,  a model,  called  on  him  one  day,  and 
she  had  such  a glorious  figure  that  he  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  give  her  a sitting  the  follow- 
ing morning.  He  was  not  quite  decided  what  he 
should  do  from  her,  so  when  she  was  undressed  he 
got  her  to  try  various  poses,  in  all  of  which  she  looked 
so  splendid  that  he  couldn’t  make  up  his  mind  how 
to  paint  her.  Whilst  suggesting  different  positions 
they  were  chatting  in  quite  a friendly  manner,  till  at 
last,  and  he  couldn’t  quite  explain  why,  he  said,  as  he 
was  gazing  at  the  lovely  form  before  him  she  suddenly 
became  in  his  mind,  what  she  really  was,  a very 
beautiful  woman  and  no  longer  a model.  His 
admiration  for  her  was  responsible  for  the  intro- 
duction into  the  tones  of  his  voice  of  a trace  of 
tenderness,  and  under  the  pretext  of  altering  the 
pose  she  was  taking,  he  touched  her  lightly.  She 
took  no  notice  of  this  apparently,  so  he  felt  instantly 
emboldened  to  go  a step  further,  and  bending  forward 
he  gave  her  a slight  kiss  on  the  neck.  She  started 
back  as  though  she  had  been  stung,  and  exclaimed 
angrily : 

“What  do  you  mean  by  doing  that?  How  dare 
you?  If  you  attempt  that  sort  of  thing  with  me  I 
shall  put  on  my  things  at  once  and  go — so  I warn  you.” 

He  stood  abashed,  not  knowing  at  first  what  to 
say,  then  started  making  excuses  for  his  lapse  from 
decorum,  all  of  which  she  treated  with  scornful  indig- 
nation ; however,  he  managed  to  appease  her  after 
a while,  and  she  forgave  him,  but  she  never  sat  for 
him  again. 

The  mention  of  relations  between  artists  and  their 
models  reminds  me  of  a story  they  told  of  a man 
who  was  on  the  best  of  terms  with  a girl  who  sat 
for  him  — it  was  an  open  secret,  and  they  always 
addressed  each  other  even  in  public  in  the  most  en- 
dearing terms,  such  as  “ sweetheart,”  “ducky  darling,” 
and  so  forth.  One  day,  however,  an  important  client 

46 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


called  unexpectedly,  and  was  shown  in  whilst  a 
sitting  was  in  progress.  The  artist  waited  till  the 
visitor  had  got  well  into  the  studio,  and  turned  with 
an  air  of  importance  to  the  girl  and  said  abruptly, 
“You  can  rest  now,  model.” 

“ All  right,  artist,”  was  her  prompt  reply. 

You  paid  your  model  then,  the  same  as  you  do 
now,  namely,  7s.  a day  and  her  lunch,  so  she  didn’t 
do  so  badly  if  constantly  at  work ; but  this  was 
seldom  the  case,  and  probably  at  the  end  of  the 
month  she  would  have  only  earned  a starvation 
amount.  All  the  more  credit  to  her,  then,  if  she  kept 
straight,  and  a wonder  to  me  always  was  that  so 
many  did.  There  were,  of  course,  as  in  every  line  of 
life,  lots  of  black  sheep  amongst  them — girls  who 
took  to  drink  and  went  to  the  bad,  and  the  wonder 
was  there  were  not  a great  many  more,  considering 
the  “fast”  atmosphere  of  St  John’s  Wood  in  those 
days,  and  the  numbers  of  gay  women  who  lived  in 
every  street — the  sight  of  whom  must  have  often 
given  the  poor  models  furiously  to  think. 

Several  artists  I knew  had  fallen  in  love  with 
their  models  and  married  them,  and  in  most  cases 
the  result  was  a very  happy  one ; but  there  were  a 
few  very  much  the  reverse,  where  the  wife  had 
developed  jealousy  of  other  models  to  such  an  extent 
as  to  be  almost  unbearable,  even  if  their  husbands 
were  not  good-looking  and  long  past  the  age  when 
they  might  have  had  some  excuse  for  mistrust.  The 
curious  part  of  it  was  that  the  usual  form  this 
jealousy  took  would  be  a wild,  unreasoning  suspicion 
of  anything  in  petticoats  that  came  to  the  studio — 
sometimes  even  of  the  very  charwoman — with  the 
result  that  in  order  to  have  peace  at  any  price,  the 
unfortunate  artist  would  end  by  sinking  his  individu- 
ality, and  only  painting  subjects  his  wife  approved 
of.  It  was  quite  pitiful  at  times  to  watch  a man’s 
spirit  gradually  being  nagged  out  of  him. 

There  was  one  lady,  the  wife  of  a distinguished 

4 7 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


old  painter,  whose  whole  life  appeared  to  be  taken 
up  with  watching  her  husband,  and  from  all  accounts 
she  was  never  really  happy  unless  she  thought  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  catching  him  in  flagrante  delicto. 
She  positively  revelled  in  her  fancied  grievances 
against  him,  yet  he  was  as  guileless  an  old  man  as 
one  could  meet  anywhere  ; but  now  and  again  his 
beaten  down  spirit  would  revolt  against  her  bullying 
— a flash  in  the  pan  as  it  were. 

On  one  occasion,  for  instance,  he  was  working  very 
diligently,  when  his  wife  rushed  into  his  studio  and 
accused  him  of  being  familiar  with  his  model — and 
the  old  man  actually  had  the  pluck  to  retort  angrily  : 
“ Good  God,  woman ! how  can  I be  spooning  with 
a person  sitting  twelve  feet  away  from  me?”  He 
was  usually  very  meek  and  cringing,  and  once,  rather 
than  have  a row,  he  sent  his  model  away  and  never 
finished  his  picture. 

There  was  another  artist’s  wife,  also  an  ex-model — 
who  had  conceived  quite  a brilliant  idea.  She  had 
had  a peep-hole — with  a sliding  flap  over  it,  which 
worked  noiselessly,  somewhat  similar  to  those  used  in 
prisons — made  in  the  studio  door,  so  that  she  could 
look  in  at  any  moment  and  see  what  her  husband 
was  doing,  without  his  being  aware  of  it.  Perhaps, 
however,  one  of  the  most  curious  affairs  of  this 
description  I ever  heard  of  was  about  an  old  married 
couple  who  had  for  years  been  living  a cat  and  dog 
existence — always  quarrelling,  or  not  being  on  speak- 
ing terms — suddenly  changing  for  some  reason,  best 
known  to  themselves,  and  actually  ending  by  falling 
in  love  with  each  other  again.  I should  never  have 
believed  it  if  I had  not  seen  them  myself,  sitting 
hand  in  hand,  calling  one  another  by  endearing  terms, 
and  looking  as  spoony  as  a pair  of  young  lovers. 

I am  told  that  such  cases  are  not  altogether  rare ; 
but  I don’t  want  to  come  across  one  again.  It  struck 
me,  I remember,  as  being  positively  nauseating. 

Living  en  menage , such  as  one  saw  so  much  of  in 

48 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Paris,  was  very  rare  amongst  the  artists  I came 
across  in  St  John’s  Wood.  I knew  two  people  who 
had  lived  together  for  a number  of  years  and  shared 
the  same  studio ; but  they  gave  out-  they  were 
“engaged,”  and  people  pretended  to  believe  them, 
and  so  there  was  no  scandal,  and  as  they  eventually 
got  married,  when  on  the  verge  of  old  age,  and  were 
happy  ever  after,  it  all  ended  in  most  conventional 
style. 

The  fact  was,  what  in  London  commenced  as  a 
flirtation  generally  ended  at  that  outwardly  ; whereas 
in  Paris  there  was  no  halfway  house — it  was  all  or 
nothing,  and  no  secrecy  about  it  whatever.  If  a 
man  in  Bohemia  preferred  to  live  with  his  maitresse 
to  getting  married,  no  one  thought  any  the  worse 
of  him.  There  may  be  a lot  of  hypocrisy  about 
the  English  view  of  these  matters ; but  it  seems  to 
be  better  it  should  be  so,  than  proclaiming  one’s 
peccadilloes  from  the  house-tops. 

What  spoilt  “ modelling,”  if  one  may  so  term  it, 
as  a profession  was  the  number  of  amateur  models. 
There  is  undoubtedly  a great  fascination  about  a 
studio  for  the  average  female,  who  probably  asso- 
ciates it  with  endless  romance  and  mystery,  and 
pictures  to  herself  all  young  artists  as  out-and-out 
Bohemians  and  devil-me-care  fellows,  and  is  there- 
fore easily  persuaded  to  sit  if  “ asked  nicely.” 

In  St  John’s  Wood,  when  I was  living  there,  one 
had  no  difficulty  in  finding  any  number  of  pretty 
girls  who  lived  at  home,  and  had  nothing  much  to 
do  during  the  day,  who  gladly  welcomed  the  chance 
of  a break  in  the  usual  routine  of  their  everyday 
life  by  going  for  an  hour  or  so  to  a studio. 

My  experiences  in  this  respect  were  doubtless  but 
similar  to  those  of  many  other  artists  who  took  the 
trouble  to  keep  their  eyes  open  when  strolling  about 
the  neighbourhood.  In  this  relation  I found  that  one 
had  more  chance  than  in  Paris  — where  if  one  got 
to  know  a girl  without  a formal  introduction  the 

49  D 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


odds  were  she  was  a femme  entretenue , or  some  one 
who  would  speak  to  any  one  who  spoke  to  her,  and 
with  whom  it  was  only  a question  of  L.S.D. 

In  the  Wood  these  chance  acquaintances  often 
turned  out  to  be  quite  respectable  girls,  with  whom 
one  became  great  pals,  and  who  looked  upon  it  as 
quite  an  adventure  to  sit  for  a picture.  I may 
have  been  particularly  fortunate,  but  certainly  some 
of  the  best  friends  I had  in  those  days  I got  to 
know  through  the  introduction  of  ladies  whom  I 
met  casually  in  an  omnibus  or  train,  and  who  came 
and  sat  for  me.  Several  of  my  most  successful 
pictures  were  painted  from  “ friends,”  whose  acquaint- 
ance I had  made  in  this  unorthodox  manner. 

As  a matter  of  fact,  when  one  has  a picture  in 
one’s  mind,  and  one  wants  some  particular  type  of 
face  for  which  one  might  wait  for  ever,  and  not 
find  a professional  model  to  suit  it,  the  temptation 
is  often  irresistible  to  try  and  get  to  know  the 
girl  you  come  across  who  is  just  the  model  you 
have  been  looking  for. 

‘‘You  have  just  the  face  I want  for  a picture  I 
am  going  to  paint,”  may  sound  to  the  layman  a 
very  thin  excuse  for  an  introduction,  but  it  is  gener- 
ally founded  on  fact.  It  was  well  known  that 
Bastien  Lepage  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  most 
distinguished  living  actress  in  this  way,  and  his 
name  was  made  through  the  picture  he  painted 
from  her. 

Mrs  Grundy  may  turn  up  her  eyes  at  such  uncon- 
ventionality ; but  it  exists  nevertheless,  and  always 
will  exist,  however  much  she  may  condemn  it. 

But  to  return  to  the  subject  of  amateur  models. 
My  experience  has  generally  led  me  to  the  con- 
clusion that  if  a “ friend  ” takes  sufficient  interest 
in  you  or  the  picture,  as  the  case  might  be,  she 
will  generally  do  her  best  to  help  you  make  it  a 
success  — whereas  the  average  model  looks  upon 
the  artist  as  merely  her  employer,  and  there  her 

50 


JUST  THE  MODEL  YOU  HAVE  BEEN  LOOKING  FOR. 
From  the  original  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  M.  E.  de  Rossi. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

concern  ends.  There  may,  of  course,  be  models 
who  are  not  quite  as  indifferent,  but  I imagine 
they  are  few  and  far  between ; their  one  anxiety 
is  to  get  the  sitting  over  and  be  off.  Of  course  it 
is  not  every  amateur  model,  however  good-natured 
and  willing,  can  keep  a pose  for  any  length  of  time, 
especially  if  it  is  at  all  difficult,  so  in  that  case  one 
is  bound  to  engage  a professional. 

I have  had  many  funny  experiences  of  the  diffi- 
culties that  crop  up  when  painting  from  amateur 
models  — and  doubtless  many  artists  could  also 
relate  curious  adventures  on  this  subject.  A friend 
of  mine  told  me  of  one  which  was  very  amusing. 
He  wanted  a particular  type  of  little  girl,  and  after 
searching  for  some  time  in  vain  he  mentioned  it 
to  his  charwoman,  and  she  got  a “lady  friend”  of 
hers  to  let  her  youngster  come  and  sit  to  him  for 
the  usual  fee  he  paid.  The  child  was  just  what 
the  artist  wanted  for  his  picture,  and  came  to  him 
one  Saturday  for  a sitting — but  he  soon  found  to 
attempt  to  paint  anything  from  her  was  useless ; 
she  couldn’t  keep  still  for  a moment,  and  chatted 
away  the  whole  time,  till  she  nearly  drove  him 
crazy.  After  several  unsuccessful  endeavours  he 
gave  it  up  as  a bad  job,  and  paying  for  the  sitting 
he  told  her  to  go  home,  and  he  should  not  require 
her  services  again.  To  his  surprise  the  child  turned 
up  on  the  Monday  morning. 

“ I thought  I said  you  were  not  to  come  any 
more,”  he  exclaimed  angrily  on  seeing  her  enter 
the  studio. 

“Yes,”  was  the  reply  ; “and  you  better  not  do  it 
again.  I told  my  mother  about  it,  and  she  was 
wild ! ” 

I remember  one  of  my  own  experiences  with  a 
would-be  model.  A pretty  girl  came  to  me  one 
day  just  as  I was  going  out,  and  said  a friend  of 
hers  had  given  her  my  address,  and  told  her  she 
could  probably  earn  some  money  by  sitting  for  me. 

5i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


She  was  so  nice  that  I asked  her  to  call  on  me 
the  next  day,  and  I would  make  a sketch  from 
her.  This  she  did,  and  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion I gathered  that  she  was  not  absolutely  a prude, 
and  might  perhaps  be  induced  to  sit  for  the  figure ; 
so  I suggested  that  if  she  would  I would  paint  her 
as  a nymph,  or  something  equally  appropriate. 

To  my  surprise  she  said,  “ No,  I won’t  sit  to  you 
for  the  figure.”  Laying  such  emphasis  on  the  “ you  ” 
I naturally  asked  why  she  objected  so  particularly 
to  me — as  I had  not  said  a word  to  her  that  could 
by  any  chance  be  construed  wrongly.  “ Oh,  nothing,” 
she  replied  ambiguously  ; “ except  that  I have  heard 
you  lived  in  Paris.” 

I didn’t  pursue  the  subject,  but  often  wondered 
what  on  earth  she  meant. 

There  was  a girl  who  used  to  come  and  sit  for 
me  sometimes  ; she  was  quite  respectable  in  so  much 
as  she  lived  with  her  people,  who  were  fairly  well 
to  do.  She  sat  for  me  purely  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing  she  said,  and  would  not  let  me  pay  anything 
for  it,  although  I had  suggested  treating  it  as  a 
matter  of  business.  After  a little  persuasion  I got 
her  to  sit  for  the  “ altogether,”  as  she  had  a beautiful 
figure ; but  she  had  a peculiar  perception  of  modesty ; 
she  didn’t  mind  my  sketching  her  legs  and  feet  bare 
when  she  had  all  her  clothes  on,  but  nothing  would 
induce  her  to  take  her  shoes  and  stockings  off  when 
she  was  otherwise  quite  naked.  I never  could  make 
out  why,  but  I suppose  she  thought  she  wasn’t 
entirely  nude  so  long  as  she  kept  them  on. 

One  ran  a certain  amount  of  risk  in  asking  girls 
one  knew  nothing  about  to  sit  for  you,  as  I realised 
on  one  occasion  when  an  incident  of  unpleasant 
nature  occurred  in  consequence. 

I met  a very  pretty  woman  one  evening  whilst 
strolling  near  the  studio,  and  when  she  found  out  I 
was  an  artist  she  offered  of  her  own  accord  to  come 
and  sit  for  me  if  I would  paint  her.  As  I was  about 

52 


By  permission  of  L.  Soudier 

BUT  NOTHING  WOULD  INDUCE  HER  TO  TAKE  HER  SHOES  AND 
STOCKINGS  OFF.” 


From  the  original  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  M.  E.  de  Rossi. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  suggest  this  myself  I was  delighted  when  it  came 
from  her. 

The  following  day  she  came  up,  and  I commenced 
a sketch  of  her  in  deshabille  as  she  had  no  prejudices 
on  the  subject,  and  we  soon  became  rather  more  than 
friends.  I may  mention  she  had  on  her  first  visit 
given  me  an  address  at  Hampstead  where  I might 
write  her,  as  she  could  not  receive  letters  at  her  home. 

Well,  one  day  she  turned  up  at  the  appointed  time, 
and  we  were  getting  on  with  the  painting  when  there 
came  a violent  ring  at  the  bell — one  of  those  hard, 
unsympathetic  rings  that  betoken  no  friendly  feeling. 
My  model,  as  I will  call  her,  to  my  astonishment 
jumped  up  with  a whispered  exclamation  of  alarm. 

“ Who  can  it  be  ? ” she  queried. 

“ Most  likely  only  a bill,”  said  I nonchalantly ; but 
I smelt  a rat,  all  the  same — “ I will  see  ” — and  going 
over  to  a sort  of  peep-hole  I had  contrived  in  the 
door  in  order  to  see  who  my  visitors  were,  I looked 
out  and  saw  a stranger,  a big,  heavy  man,  waiting  by 
the  bell. 

“ Let  me  see  who  it  is,”  said  my  friend,  who  had 
suddenly  become  strangely  excited,  and,  pushing  me 
aside,  she  peeped  through.  “ It’s  my  husband.  I 
thought  it  would  be.  My  God ! what  shall  I do  ? ” 
she  gasped  out. 

“ Your  husband  ! ” I exclaimed ; “ you  never  told  me 
you  were  married.” 

“ Well,  I am,  and  if  he  catches  me  here  with  you 
he’ll  kill  me.  Where  can  I go?  What  shall  I do? 
Think  of  something  quick,  there’s  no  time  to  lose,” 
she  continued  hysterically  as  the  bell  rang  out  again 
stridently,  and  she  began  putting  on  her  clothes  in 
feverish  haste. 

Here  was  a pretty  predicament  for,  as  may  be 
imagined,  I didn’t  want  a scandal  in  the  studio. 
Suddenly  I remembered  the  back  exit  through  the 
garden.  Hastily  I told  her  of  it,  and  explained  I 
would  ask  her  husband  into  the  studio ; that  she 

53 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


would  have  to  make  her  escape  as  noiselessly  as 
possible  at  the  moment  she  heard  him  enter.  Of 
course  she  agreed  to  do  this.  So  pushing  her  hat 
and  cloak  into  her  hand,  and  without  a word  of 
good-bye,  I let  her  out  and  bolted  the  door,  and 
then  hid  the  picture  I was  painting  from  her. 

The  bell  rang  out  again,  and  I heard  footsteps 
coming  up  the  pathway,  and  there  was  a loud  knock 
as  though  with  a stick  at  the  studio  door.  An  idea 
occurred  to  me  to  explain  my  delay  in  opening. 
Pulling  off  my  coat  and  waistcoat  I went  into  the 
lavatory,  and  wetting  my  face  and  hands  and  rough- 
ing my  hair  I called  out,  “ All  right,  whoever  it  is, 
I won’t  be  a minute,”  and  then  after  a pause  I went 
to  open  the  door,  towel  in  hand,  as  though  I had 
been  disturbed  whilst  having  a wash.  “Oh,  I thought 
it  was  a lady  friend  of  mine,”  I said,  as  though 
surprised  at  seeing  a stranger,  adding,  “ And  what 
can  I do  for  you,  sir?” 

“ I want  to  know  what  you  are  doing  with  my  wife 
in  your  studio,”  he  yelled  out. 

“Your  wife ! ” I repeated.  “ Are  you  mad  ? I haven’t 
got  your  wife  in  my  studio.” 

“ Oh,  haven’t  you  ? Well,  I know  better,  and  I have 
had  her  followed,  so  let  me  in,”  and  before  I could 
stop  him — he  was,  as  I said,  a big,  heavy  man — he 
pushed  me  aside  and  rushed  into  the  studio  like  a 
raving  maniac.  By  Jove  it  was  lucky  he  didn’t  find 
her  there,  for  I really  believe  there  would  have  been 
murder  done. 

A glance  round  was  sufficient  to  prove  to  him 
there  was  no  lady  in  the  place,  as  the  curtains  across 
the  alcove  were  drawn  back  and  the  inner  door  wide 
open.  He  stood  still,  looking  round  in  amazement. 

I heard  a faint  sound  as  of  footsteps  hurrying 
down  the  pathway  towards  the  street.  I had  to  give 
her  time  to  get  away,  so  pretended  to  work  myself 
up  into  a violent  rage. 

“ Are  you  mad  or  drunk,  coming  here  like  this  ? 

54 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Who  are  you  and  what  do  you  mean  by  it?  What’s 
the  game?” 

“ So  she’s  not  here,”  he  said  half  to  himself ; then 
turning  to  me,  “ There  must  be  some  mistake.  I hope, 
sir,  you  will  accept  my  apologies  for  intruding  on 
you  like  this,  but  I was  informed  that  my  wife  had 
been  seen  coming  to  your  studio,  and  I determined 
to  catch  her — and  you  too,”  he  added  with  a grim 
laugh.  “ However,  I am  very  glad  indeed  it  is  not 
true.  I hope  you  will  accept  my  sincere  apologies, 
and  I am  very  sorry  if  I have  caused  you  any 
annoyance.” 

I could  see  that  he  was  overjoyed  at  not  finding 
her  in  the  place,  so  I pretended  to  be  mollified,  and 
told  him  I quite  understood  his  feelings  in  the  matter. 
He  turned  to  make  his  way  out  — at  the  door  he 
offered  me  his  hand,  and  with  a tremble  in  his  voice 
he  said,  “ We’ve  only  been  married  a couple  of 
years,  and  I love  her  more  than  anything  in  the 
world,  and  the  meri  thought  of  any  one  fooling 
about  with  her  drives  me  positively  mad,  and  I 
could  kill  her.”  Then  after  a pause  he  added,  “ You 
understand,  I am  sure.” 

He  seemed  a jolly,  good,  honest  fellow,  the  very 
chap  to  deserve  a good  wife ; but  he  had  had  no 
luck  in  the  lottery,  and  I felt  very  sorry  for  him. 

She  never  came  to  see  me  again,  but  curiously 
enough  about  a year  later,  when  I had  almost 
forgotten  the  incident,  I had  a letter  from  her ; it 
had  a black  border  to  it.  In  it  she  told  me  I would 
“ be  sorry  to  hear  ” she  was  a widow,  that  her 
husband  had  died  suddenly,  and  that  she  was  going 
to  live  with  a sister  in  Canada. 


55 


CHAPTER  VI 


My  good  luck  in  Marlboro’  Hill  — Commissions — Portraits  — A 
beautiful  sitter — Trying  work — I fall  in  love — Symptoms  of  the 
disease — Keeping  the  postman  busy — Top-hatted  respectability — 
Bohemianism  versus  conventionality — “A  talk  with  papa” — 
Ignominious  retreat — I go  to  Gorleston — Painting  en  plein  air — 
Tender  recollections — I go  to  Paris  to  paint  portrait — La  vie  du 
Grand  Monde — Leaving  Marlboro’  Hill — Search  for  another 
studio — io  Blenheim  Place — The  “ Eyre  Arms  ” and  its  habituts 
— The  Belsize  Boxing  Club — The  dances  in  the  Assembly  Rooms 
— The  coffee-room — The  dignified  waiter — The  private  bar — 
Pony  Moore — Amusing  episode — Practical  joking  in  the  wood — 
I spend  a week-end  in  a haunted  house — The  family  ghost — 
Thrilling  incident. 


The  year  I spent  in  the  studio  in  Marlboro’  Hill  was 
pleasant  enough  from  start  to  finish,  and  I never  had 
reason  to  regret  having  risked  taking  it.  I had  nothing 
but  good  fortune,  and  although  I didn’t  make  enough 
money  to  be  able  to  save  anything,  I had  no  occasion 
to  draw  on  my  slender  capital  the  whole  time,  which 
meant  that  I managed  to  make  a living,  such  as  it 
was,  out  of  my  work ; no  mean  achievement  con- 
sidering I was  only  just  starting  professionally.  Luck 
of  course  had  a deal  to  do  with  it,  like  it  always  has, 
and  in  my  case  it  took  the  form  of  several  com- 
missions for  small  paintings  of  genre  subjects  for  a 
London  dealer,  and  three  or  four  portraits.  One  of 
the  latter  was  particularly  interesting,  not  only 
because  it  was  of  a very  beautiful  woman,  but  by 
reason  of  the  quite  unusual  circumstances  attend- 
ing it.  I feel  bound  to  recount  them,  as  they  had  a 
distinct  bearing  on  my  life  for  some  time  afterwards. 

56 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


My  sitter  was  the  wife  of  a rich  Englishman,  who 
lived  in  England  during  the  summer,  and  in  Paris 
and  the  South  of  France  during  the  rest  of  the  year. 
It  was  late  in  the  season  when  I commenced  the  work, 
so  there  wasn’t  too  much  time  to  get  on  with  it  before 
they  left  town,  so  it  was  arranged  I should  go  over 
and  finish  it  in  Paris  if  necessary,  as  they  particularly 
desired  that  it  should  be  exhibited  at  the  Salon . It 
would  have  been  difficult  to  imagine  a pleasanter 
commission,  and  I started  on  it  with  an  enthusiasm 
which  was  augmented  by  the  impression  the  beauty 
of  my  sitter  had  made  on  me. 

The  next  few  weeks,  therefore,  I was  at  her  beck 
and  call,  so  to  speak,  and  I soon  discovered  how 
trying  it  must  be  to  one’s  patience  to  be  a society 
portrait  painter,  for  I can  still  recall  those  weary  waits 
in  the  studio,  and  the  telegrams  putting  off  sitting  at 
the  last  moment,  and  all  the  little  worries  incidental 
to  painting  the  portrait  of  a fashionable  beauty.  They 
seemed  so  important  at  the  time,  but  when  I look 
back  on  them  after  all  these  years,  I realise  what  a 
lot  of  concern  one  attaches  to  what  really  only 
amount  to  trifles  after  all  is  said  and  done.  With  all 
the  best  will  possible,  and  my  sitter  turned  out  to  be 
as  charming  as  she  was  beautiful,  it  was  utterly 
impossible  to  finish  the  picture  before  she  left  town, 
so  I gladly  agreed  to  go  over  and  spend  a month  in 
Paris  in  the  autumn  and  work  on  it  there.  As  may 
be  imagined,  I was  not  sorry  for  the  excuse,  and  the 
more  especially  as  a friend  had  offered  to  lend  me 
his  studio  to  work  in. 

In  the  meantime  I had  plenty  to  occupy  my  time 
in  London  outside  painting,  as  I had  an  adventure 
that  landed  me  as  near  matrimony  as  I have  ever 
ventured — it  was  only  my  want  of  pluck  that  saved 
me.  It  came  about  in  this  wise. 

I was  something  of  a dancing  man  then,  and  on  one 
occasion  I met  at  a ball  what  I thought  was  absolutely 
the  loveliest  creature  I had  ever  cast  eyes  on,  and  I 

57 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


told  her  I was  an  artist  and  would  love  to  paint  her, 
and  she  said  she’d  love  to  sit  to  me — and  I went 
home  and  lay  awake  and  thought  of  her  and  fell 
asleep  and  dreamed  of  her.  The  next  day  I dis- 
covered I was  madly  in  love,  so,  as  the  symptoms 
brooked  no  delay,  I sought  some  one  who  knew  her 
people,  and  in  a short  time  I had  got  not  only  an 
introduction,  but  was  invited  to  a dance  at  their  house. 

From  that  moment  I was  non  composs  and  passed 
most  of  my  time  when  I could  not  see  her  in  writing 
her  lengthy  letters,  which  she  promptly  answered  ; 
so  between  us  we  kept  the  postman  busy,  for  on  one 
day  alone  I remember,  no  less  than  eight  communica- 
tions reached  us  respectively. 

I believe  it  is  admitted  that  a first  attack  of  love- 
sickness, like  influenza,  is  always  severer  than  subse- 
quent attacks,  so  no  doubt  this  was  my  case,  for 
I can  well  recollect  the  dreadful  time  of  alternating 
suspense  and  elation  I passed  through  during  that 
period  of  the  disease  immediately  following  on  the 
incubation  stage,  and  I had  every  reason  to  believe 
the  object  of  my  adoration  was  similarly  afflicted. 

One  particularly  uncomfortable  result  of  the  state 
of  mind  in  which  I found  myself  was  that  any 
original  assurance  with  which  Nature  had  endowed 
me  wholly  deserted  me  at  that  time,  and  I believe 
I found  myself  realising  that  if  that  was  one  of  the 
consequences  of  falling  seriously  in  love,  it  were 
better  to  be  without  it.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
hitherto  my  experience  in  this  respect  had  been  of 
but  a light-hearted,  transient  nature — a Bohemian 
state  of  affairs  which  had  been,  as  it  were,  a result 
of  feeling  lonely,  and  therefore  with  no  deep  motive 
to  sustain  it.  This  time  I knew  somehow  it  was 
quite  a different  matter,  and  I hardly  recognised 
myself  in  my  new  role  of  top-hatted  respectability 
— paying  afternoon  calls,  going  to  social  functions, 
dinner  parties,  and  what  not,  for  the  sake  of  meeting 
my  divinity. 


58 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


It  was  indeed  a new  experience  for  me,  and,  with 
the  recollection  of  my  boisterous  days  in  Paris  still 
fresh  in  my  memory,  a somewhat  startling  and  un- 
expected one.  It  was  to  be  a struggle  in  my  mind 
between  Bohemianism  and  conventionality,  and  for 
the  moment  I felt  like  a swimmer  on  a high  diving 
board,  who  cannot  make  up  his  mind  for  the  plunge 
because  he  fears  the  water  is  cold. 

In  the  meantime  I was  getting  more  and  more 
enraptured,  and  at  length  we  both  decided  that  I 
ought  to  have  a “talk  with  papa.” 

I had  been  in  my  heart  hoping  to  be  able  to  defer 
the  interview,  for  we  had  been  having  such  lovely 
times  together  that  the  step  I was  about  to  take 
would,  I felt,  put  an  end  to  all  the  delightful  secrecy 
of  the  romance  and  settle  it  once  and  for  all  on  a 
matter-of-fact  basis,  which  somehow  didn’t  seem  to 
have  entered  into  my  ideas  up  till  then,  nor  did  it 
appeal  to  me.  Still  there  was  no  help  for  it;  that 
relentless  task-mistress,  Mrs  Grundy,  had  to  be 
reckoned  with,  and  even  my  love’s  bosom  friend,  a 
jolly  girl  who  had  good-naturedly  acted  as  chaperon 
and  played  gooseberry  for  us  since  the  commence- 
ment of  our  rhapsody,  had  laughingly  though  signifi- 
cantly thrown  out  the  suggestion  that  “ something 
ought  to  be  done.”  I felt  she  was  right,  and  that 
I ought  not  to  have  required  the  hint,  so  after  a 
sleepless  night  I got  up  one  morning  feeling  very 
much  as  I imagine  a man  would  when  going  to 
his  execution,  and  made  up  my  mind  suddenly  to 
go  and  face  the  music. 

Imagine  my  sensations  when  the  dreaded  moment 
arrived  for  bearding  the  stern  parent,  a hard-hearted 
merchant  of  much  worldly  goods  and  possessions, 
whose  sympathies  I felt  only  too  well  would  not  be 
entirely  in  favour  of  a struggling  artist  as  the 
husband  of  his  only  child  ; still  one  could  not  tell 
without  asking,  and  it  was  this  I was  about  to  risk. 

Although  I kept  saying  to  myself  “ faint  heart 

59 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


never  won  fair  lady”  (by  the  way,  she  was  dark), 
when  the  time  came,  and  I was  alone  with  him  in  his 
study,  in  spite  of  his  being  quite  a small  man,  and 
not  in  the  least  an  individual  of  terrifying  appear- 
ance, I found  I had  no  heart  left  at  all,  and  the  inter- 
view (the  only  one  of  its  kind  in  my  adventurous 
career)  ended  in  my  ignominious  retreat  without  a 
shot  fired  on  either  side ; and  to  the  day  of  his  death 
the  old  gentleman  could  never  have  known  to  what 
he  owed  the  honour  of  my  visit  on  that  beautiful 
spring  morning.  What  my  lady-love  thought  of  it 
all  I hardly  care  to  reflect  upon.  Perhaps,  as  she 
is  now  a grandmother,  time  has  softened  the  blow. 

I returned  to  my  work  a somewhat  chastened 
youth,  although  somehow  I had  the  satisfactory 
conviction  that  I had  just  escaped  making  an  arrant 
fool  of  myself.  I didn’t  want  to  look  like  running 
away  when  it  occurred  to  me  the  best  thing  to  do 
was  to  get  out  of  London  for  a time.  I decided, 
therefore,  to  carry  out  a pet  idea,  and  paint  some- 
thing large  for  the  Salon — so  got  an  artist  friend  to 
accompany  me,  and  we  went  down  to  Gorleston, 
then  a tiny  little  fishing  village  close  to  Yarmouth, 
and  here  in  quiet  seclusion  I started  a six  - foot 
canvas,  and  we  both  of  us  painted  and  sketched  for 
several  weeks.  I worked  from  my  models  out  on 
the  old  pier  with  the  very  background  and  composi- 
tion I wanted,  a delightful  experience,  and  one  that 
doesn’t  always  present  itself. 

We  put  up  at  a dear  old  Dickens-sort  of  inn  called 
the  “ Anchor,”  if  I remember  rightly,  which  was  on 
the  pier  itself  and  within  a stone’s-throw  of  the  sea, 
and  it  was  all  so  quiet  and  primitive  that  one  might 
have  been  in  Holland.  I have  never  been  to 
Gorleston  since,  but  I learn  it  is  now  quite  an 
important  town,  and  I should  not  recognise  it. 

The  village  then  only  consisted  of  a few  fishermen’s 
cottages,  and  if  we  wanted  any  mild  excitement  we 
would  go  into  Yarmouth  at  night.  But  I had  not 

60 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


got  over  my  love  affair  yet;  it  had  made  too  deep 
an  impression  to  be  easily  effaced,  and  I generally 
preferred  to  wander  about  at  night  by  myself  and 
think  over  again  and  again  what  might  have  been. 

It  is  curious  how  at  times  one  positively  enjoys 
feeling  miserable  and  unhappy  all  by  oneself,  nursing 
one’s  grief  as  it  were.  Several  times  I recollect  I was 
on  the  point  of  making  up  my  mind  to  return  to 
town  and  see  her  again — if  she  would  see  me  ; but, 
fortunately,  and  especially  for  her  as  I feel  bound  to 
admit,  better  sense  I am  now  convinced  prevailed, 
and  I managed  to  stick  to  my  painting,  and  thus 
divert  my  thoughts;  and  so  time,  the  great  healer, 
went  by,  and  gradually  I recovered,  and  when  we  got 
back  to  town  in  the  late  autumn  I brought  a large 
completely  finished  picture  with  me,  and  I found 
myself  quite  looking  forward  to  my  forthcoming  visit 
to  Paris  to  continue  the  portrait. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  mention  how  delighted 
I was  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  all  my  French  friends 
again  and  revisiting  my  old  haunts.  It  seemed  but  a 
few  months  since  I had  left,  but  so  much  had  happened 
in  the  meantime.  Little  had  I thought  I should  be 
back  again  in  so  short  a time  with  my  expenses  all 
paid  and  a commission  for  a portrait  as  well.  I had 
good  reason  to  be  satisfied,  and  things  could  not  have 
looked  rosier. 

My  client  lived  in  the  Avenue  d’Jena  in  a 
beautiful  house,  but  he  had  suggested  I would  be 
freer  if  I lived  out,  so  I decided  to  put  up  at  a maison 
meubUe  I had  been  recommended  opposite  the 
Embassy  in  the  Faubourg  St  Honore,  which  was  not 
far  away,  as  I naturally  had  to  be  near  my  client 
since  I was  his  guest.  My  friend  was  as  good  as  his 
word  and  lent  me  his  studio,  so  I was  once  more 
installed  in  Paris. 

I spent  a delightful  month  over  there.  My  sitter 
gave  me  as  much  of  her  time  as  she  could  spare  from 
her  social  engagements,  and  when  she  didn’t  feel 

61 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


equal  to  coming  to  the  studio  and  preferred  going 
into  the  Bois,  I would  accompany  her  either  on 
horseback  or  in  her  victoria,  which  was  one  of  the 
best  appointed  in  Paris.  Her  husband  drove  a very 
smartly  turned  out  tandem,  and  a whole  party  of 
friends  used  to  meet  of  a day  for  tea  at  the  restaurant 
at  the  Cascade,  which  was  then  the  rendezvous  of  the 
fashionable  set. 

It  was  quite  a different  aspect  of  the  life  of  Paris 
to  what  I have  been  accustomed  to  when  living  there 
as  a student,  and  I enjoyed  it  immensely.  The  vie 
de  Boheme  has  its  charms,  but  so  also  has  the  vie  du 
grand  monde , and  it  certainly  is  easier  to  get  used 
to  luxuries  that  wealth  alone  can  provide  than  to 
roughing  it  as  I had  been  accustomed  to.  In  spite, 
however,  of  so  much  diversion  I managed  to  get  on 
with  my  work,  and  it  would  have  been  quite  com- 
pleted within  the  time  limit  I had  given  myself  had 
it  not  been  that  my  sitter  was  suddenly  taken  ill  and 
had  to  leave  at  a few  hours’  notice  for  the  South.  It 
was  disappointing,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it,  so  I 
had  to  pack  up  and  return  to  London ; before  my 
departure,  however,  she  exacted  a promise  from  me 
that  I would  accept  an  invitation  from  them  to  go 
down  to  Mentone  later  on  and  finish  the  portrait 
there.  The  idea  of  doing  so  much  travelling  and 
having  so  good  a time  for  the  sake  of  a portrait  was 
not  distasteful  to  me,  as  may  be  imagined,  so  I readily 
promised  to  do  what  she  asked. 

My  tenancy  of  the  studio  in  Marlboro’  Hill  had 
now  nearly  expired,  so  I had  to  set  about  looking  for 
another  place.  To  find  another  furnished  studio  was 
almost  impossible,  so  I decided,  on  the  strength  of  my 
luck,  to  take  an  unfurnished  one  and  gradually  fit  it 
up.  Within  a few  hours  of  commencing  my  search 
I hit  upon  a little  place  that  suited  my  ideas  and 
means  admirably.  It  was  at  No.  io  Blenheim  Place, 
and  consisted  of  a nice  studio  — small  bedroom, 
kitchen  and  an  entrance  yard  (or  yard  of  entrance, 

62 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


for  there  was  little  more)  which  would  be  useful  for 
open  air  painting  in.  It  was  newly  built  and  had  not 
yet  been  occupied,  and  this  probably  explained  its 
cheapness. 

When  the  time  came  for  leaving  the  studio  I had 
passed  so  pleasant  a year  in,  I really  felt  quite 
regretful,  and  more  especially,  perhaps,  because  I was 
practically  starting  a new  venture,  and  was  moving 
into  premises  which  I should  have  to  furnish  entirely 
myself.  I well  recollect  my  feelings  after  having 
moved  in  when  I surveyed  my  scanty  belongings.  I 
had  become  so  accustomed  to  the  comparative  luxury 
of  Marlboro’  Hill,  that  it  became  a positive  shock  to 
realise  what  a lot  I had  to  buy  to  make  the  place 
look  even  habitable.  Although  I had  been  doing  so 
well  during  the  year  that  was  past,  it  almost  seemed 
like  having  to  commence  all  over  again. 

All  I had  got  was  an  old  easel  that  had  belonged 
to  my  mother  (who  was  a clever  amateur  artist),  my 
painting  materials,  canvases,  etc.,  a couple  of  wooden 
boxes  containing  books  and  so  forth  and  my  personal 
belongings.  It  was  a very  scanty  lot  indeed,  and 
appeared  a very  hopeless  beginning  to  setting  up 
dans  ses  nieubles , as  they  say  in  France.  Of  course 
had  I had  plenty  of  money  to  lay  out  it  would  not 
have  taken  very  long  to  fit  the  place  up,  but  I had 
to  be  careful,  so  there  was  naught  for  it  but  to  pick 
up  gradually  here  and  there  absolute  necessities, 
trusting  to  luck  to  be  able  to  buy  luxuries  later  on. 
Fortunately,  the  place  lent  itself  to  easy  arrangement, 
as  there  were  plenty  of  commodious  nooks  and 
corners.  I had  a good  deal  of  work  in  hand  for  my 
dealer  client,  so  my  time  promised  to  be  fully 
occupied. 

I found  my  new  quarters  very  conveniently 
situated,  as  they  were  close  to  the  High  Street,  which 
was  the  only  shopping  quarter  of  the  neighbourhood, 
and  opposite  the  “ Eyre  Arms,”  which  was  the  only 
place  round  about  where  one  could  get  a decent 

63 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


meal  at  night.  It  may  be  of  interest  to  mention 
that  all  that  now  remains  of  Blenheim  Place  has 
since  been  absorbed  into  Grove  End  Road.  No.  io 
was  exactly  opposite  Waverley  Place. 

The  “ Eyre  Arms  ” and  Assembly  Rooms,  though 
only  a sort  of  glorified  public  house,  merits  more 
than  passing  notice  at  this  juncture.  Of  course  it 
is  very  different  now  to  what  it  was  in  the  days  of 
which  I am  writing ; it  was  then  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  the  village  inn  and  the  centre  of  the  life 
of  the  district,  in  fact,  it  was  a sort  of  club  where  one 
met  the  same  men  every  day,  either  in  the  billiard 
room,  where  a mild  game  of  pool  was  played  every 
evening,  in  the  coffee  room  at  dinner,  or  in  the 
modestly  appointed  private  bar,  for  saloon  bars 
were  unknown  then. 

In  the  large  Assembly  Rooms  dances  were 
frequently  given,  for  in  those  days,  before  the 
Portman  Rooms  and  the  big  hotel  ballrooms  came 
into  existence,  there  was  no  large  dancing-hall  in 
London  except  at  “ Freemasons’  Tavern,”  which  did 
an  enormous  business  in  consequence.  Up  at  the 
“Eyre  Arms”  nearly  all  the  big  drapery  establish- 
ments gave  their  annual  dances,  but  the  principal  event 
of  the  year  was  the  Ash  Wednesday  theatrical  ball. 
Theatres  were  then  closed  on  that  day,  so  every  one 
on  the  stage  would  be  there,  and  all  the  prettiest 
women  in  town.  It  was  always  a wonderful  sight 
and  most  difficult  to  get  tickets  for. 

The  Belsize  Boxing  Club  held  their  meetings  on 
the  first  floor  also,  at  the  back.  This  was  quite  one 
of  the  best  known  of  the  boxing  clubs,  and  had  a 
lot  of  good  men  in  it.  Bettinson  (Peggy),  the  light- 
weight amateur  champion,  was  the  leading  spirit,  and 
Dewhurst  was  the  Secretary.  Amongst  its  members 
whose  names  I particularly  recall  were  D’Arcy 
Bacon  (Streakey),  Charlie  Reeson  (who  was  the  single 
stick  amateur  champion),  Ganger  Wills,  Jack  Hare, 
King-Trotman,  and  last  but  not  least,  Rufus  Isaacs 

64 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


(the  present  Lord  Chief  Justice),  who  was  a very 
excellent  boxer  and  certainly  one  of  the  best  men 
in  the  Club.  On  the  Club  big  nights  there  was 
always  a large  gathering  of  sportsmen  from  all  parts 
of  London.  Eugene  Corri  usually  acted  as  judge 
in  the  competitions,  and  it  would  have  been  difficult 
then  as  it  is  now  to  find  a more  respected  or  popular 
referee. 

It  was  a very  mixed  crowd  one  met  at  the  “ Eyre 
Arms,”  for  it  was  but  a sort  of  glorified  inn,  as  I have 
said,  but  there  was  always  a good  sprinkling  of 
artists,  and  often  in  the  coffee-room  after  dinner 
there  would  be  impromptu  gatherings  and  discussions 
on  painting  or  art  generally  which  recalled  dimly  to 
my  mind  the  students’  meeting  places  in  the  Latin 
Quarter,  though  of  course  it  was  a much  older  crowd, 
and  whisky  and  soda  was  more  frequently  asked  for 
than  coffee,  although  I remember  some  of  us  did 
try  to  introduce  mazagrans>  i.e.,  black  coffee  served 
in  tumblers,  but  with  no  success,  as  coffee  was  not  a 
strong  feature  at  the  “ Eyre  Arms.” 

We  were  a cheery  lot  of  young  fellows  who 
frequented  the  place,  generally  ready  for  any  sort  of 
fun,  and  one  gradually  got  to  know  all  the  habitues , 
who  were  mostly  residents  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood. 

The  coffee-room  was  one  of  the  most  interesting 
of  its  kind  I have  come  across  in  London  ; one  might 
have  fancied  oneself  in  some  old  country  inn.  It 
was  fitted  up  with  dark  mahogany  and  horsehair, 
which  still  further  conveyed  this  impression. 

William,  the  waiter,  was  quite  a character  in 
himself,  and  gave  additional  “tone”  to  the  room. 
He  was  quite  the  best  man  of  his  class  I ever  came 
across,  and  was  far  too  good  for  the  humble  position 
of  coffee-room  waiter ; he  ought  to  have  been  butler 
or  major-domo  in  a ducal  mansion.  I always  fancied 
there  was  some  mystery  in  his  being  at  the  “ Eyre 
Arms”  at  all,  for  he  had  all  the  courteous  respect 

65  E 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


of  the  high-class  retainer.  One’s  appetite  had  to  be 
very  jaded  indeed  for  one  to  be  able  to  resist  his 
eloquent  and  almost  pictorial  description  of  the  bill 
of  fare,  although  it  never  once  varied  in  the  evening 
all  the  years  I went  there.  Chops  or  steaks  ; pressed 
beef,  ham,  salad,  cold  tart  and  Chedder  cheese, 
simple  English  provender,  verily,  but  when 
enunciated  by  William  it  seemed  to  appeal  to  one 
so  irresistibly  that  the  difficulty  only  lay  in  your 
choice,  though  you  were  generally  helped  in  this 
by  William  himself. 

“ I advise  you  to  have  a steak,  sir,”  he  would 
perhaps  remark.  “ They’re  excellent  business  to-day. 
What  shall  I say — a good  point  and  some  fried 
potatoes,  sir?” 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Even  if  you 
had  come  in  with  the  idea  of  regaling  yourself  on 
cold  meat  and  salad,  you  felt  somehow  that  William 
knew  better  than  you  did  what  was  best  for  your 
constitution. 

If  it  was  a wet  evening  there  was  generally  quite 
a little  crowd  in  the  private  bar,  and  often  some  good 
joke  on.  I remember  on  one  occasion,  when  Pony 
Moore  (of  Moore  and  Burgess  fame)  was  in  there. 
Several  fellows  were  gassing  about  athletic  feats  they 
could  accomplish.  Suddenly  Pony  chipped  in  with 
“ I like  to  hear  you  young  chaps  talking  about  what 
you  can  do.  I’m  an  old  ’un,  but  I’ll  bet  any  one 
of  you  a quid  that  I can  do  something  not  one  of 
you  can  do.” 

“ Oh,  and  what’s  that  ? ” said  some  one,  who  evi- 
dently fancied  himself,  and  saw  a chance  of  picking 
up  a sovereign  easily. 

“ Take  my  big  toe  between  my  teeth.  Do  that  if 
you  can,  you’re  a bit  of  an  athlete.” 

We  all  crowded  round  amused  at  the  novelty  of 
the  bet. 

“ Done  with  you,”  said  the  young  fellow,  and 
seating  himself  on  a chair,  he  took  off  his  boot,  and 

66 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


then,  raising  his  leg  and  stooping  forward,  he 
attempted  to  bend  his  foot  back  towards  his  head. 
It  looks  a very  simple  operation,  as  it  is  one  that 
babies  accomplish  without  effort,  but  in  a grown-up 
person,  unless  a professional  contortionist,  it  becomes 
an  extremely  difficult  matter  after  a certain  point, 
as  the  movement  attempted  is  diametrically  opposed 
to  the  laws  of  anatomy.  Try  as  he  could  the  fellow 
could  not  manage  it,  although  with  much  straining  he 
got  within  a couple  of  inches  of  the  goal,  which  was 
his  wide  open  mouth.  Meanwhile  every  one  was 
egging  him  on  and  encouraging  him  to  exert  himself 
to  his  utmost.  At  last  he  had  to  acknowledge  that 
he  could  not  do  it. 

“ Now  let’s  see  you,”  he  said,  as  he  put  on  his  boot 
again,  turning  to  Pony. 

“ All  right,  you  shall,  but  it’s  a shame  to  take  your 
money,”  replied  the  old  man,  cocking  up  his  leg  and 
removing  his  boot. 

Then  to  the  intense  astonishment  and  amusement 
of  us  all  he  put  his  fingers  in  his  mouth  and  calmly 
took  out  an  entire  set  of  false  teeth,  and  bending 
forward  he  clasped  his  big  toe  with  them.  There 
were  roars  of  laughter,  for  nothing  could  have  been 
simpler,  and  the  funny  part  of  it  was  that  no  one  had 
thought  it  was  a “catch.” 

He  was  an  amusing  old  chap  at  times  was  Pony, 
and  when  he  was  in  the  mood  would  tell  us  interesting 
reminiscences  of  his  early  days  as  a showman  in 
America.  He  lived  in  a large  house  in  Finchley 
Road,  surrounded  by  a fine  garden,  in  which  on  the 
4th  July  he  always  gave  a grand  display  of  fireworks, 
much  to  the  amusement  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Whether  it  was  the  atmosphere  of  St  John’s  Wood, 
or  the  fact  that  most  of  us  were  comparatively  young 
men  in  those  days,  I cannot  explain,  but  there  is  no 
doubt  we  were  all  inclined  to  be  more  or  less  light- 
hearted. Looking  back,  one  fancies  that  life  was 
less  strenuous  than  it  is  now.  Perhaps  it  wasn’t, 

67 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


but  judging  from  the  lively  times  one  had,  one  did 
not  worry  so  much  as  nowadays.  I have  recollec- 
tions even  of  practical  joking  which  could  scarcely 
be  practised  now ; it  would  probably  be  considered 
bad  form.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a specimen  of  an 
amusing  prank  played  on  me. 

There  were,  as  I have  explained,  two  entrances  to 
my  place  at  No.  io — first  a door  in  the  wall  flush  with 
the  street ; this  led  to  a small  yard,  and  across  this 
was  the  studio  door.  One  beastly  wet  night  I had 
been  dining  out,  and  was  hurrying  home  very  late 
and  without  an  umbrella.  I had  my  latch-key  in  my 
hand  in  readiness.  Imagine  my  astonishment  when 
I found  that  some  farceurs  had  conceived  the 
brilliant  idea  of  glueing  or  pasting  up  my  door  with 
auctioneers’  sale  bills  1 It  looked  as  though  I was 
going  to  be  sold  up  “ by  order  of  the  trustees.” 
Every  inch  of  the  woodwork  was  so  thickly  covered 
that  it  was  hopeless  to  attempt  getting  the  paper  off 
that  night,  as  it  meant  an  hour’s  work  at  least.  The 
difficulty  was  to  locate  the  keyhole,  and  evidently 
this  had  been  the  idea  of  the  jokers.  A friendly 
policeman  coming  along  gave  me  a hand,  and  between 
us,  after  considerable  trouble,  we  managed  to  discover 
it.  It  took  the  whole  of  the  next  morning  to  get  the 
paper  off  the  door,  so  effectually  had  it  been  put  on. 

It  is  surprising  the  amount  of  trouble  practical 
jokers  will  often  put  themselves  to  for  the  successful 
accomplishment  of  their  purpose.  I remember  on 
another  occasion  I had  been  in  bed  some  time,  and 
it  must  have  been  about  half  - past  one  in  the 
morning,  when  I was  awakened  by  an  uncanny 
noise  outside  the  door.  I must  explain  that  my 
bedroom  communicated  with  a corridor  which  led 
to  the  studio,  which,  by  the  way,  was  quite  isolated 
from  the  adjoining  houses. 

1 am  not  naturally  a nervous  man,  but  I must 
confess  it  is  startling  to  say  the  least  of  it  to  be 
awakened  suddenly  in  the  dead  of  night  by  weird 

68 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


sounds.  There  was  no  electric  light  to  switch  on 
in  those  days,  so  I groped  for  the  matches  and  lit 
the  gas  by  my  bed,  and  then  remained  quite  still 
and  waited  and  listened. 

The  noise  which  had  recommenced  sounded  like 
ghostly  footsteps  coming  along  the  corridor,  and 
stopped  just  outside  the  bedroom  door.  I was  not 
sorry  I had  locked  the  door,  as  is  my  usual  wont. 
It  gave  me  time  to  think  of  what  was  best  to  be 
done,  for  unless  I could  help  it  I didn’t  want  to 
rouse  the  neighbourhood  by  opening  the  window 
and  calling  police.  The  sounds  proceeded  inter- 
mittently. “ It  must  be  some  one  trying  to  break  in,” 
I thought,  so,  picking  up  a thick  heavy  stick,  I opened 
the  door  cautiously  and  then  peeped  quietly  out. 

The  corridor  was  deserted,  and  the  studio  door 
closed  as  usual.  There  was  no  sign  of  a nocturnal 
visitor.  Suddenly  I heard  the  mysterious  sound 
again,  this  time  so  close  by  that  it  gave  me  quite  a 
turn  ; I looked  up  in  the  direction  from  which  it 
came  from,  it  was  apparently  above  my  head.  In  an 
instant  I saw  it  was  a joke  being  played  on  me ; 
hung  over  the  bell  wire  was  a clothes  brush  I had 
missed  for  some  days ; attached  to  it  was  a thin 
string  which  was  carried  along  the  wire  and  over 
the  top  of  the  street  door,  and  so  outside,  where  the 
jokers  were  evidently  stationed  pulling  it,  doubtless 
enjoying  the  idea  of  the  fright  they  were  giving  me. 

How  they  had  managed  to  fix  it  up  without  my 
knowing  was  a mystery,  for  it  was  quite  cleverly 
arranged.  I was  not  long  making  up  my  mind 
what  to  do,  and  determined  to  be  equal  with  them. 
Fetching  a large  pail  of  cold  water  I opened  the 
street  door  as  quietly  as  possible  and  peered  outside. 
The  string  went  over  the  low  wall  dividing  my 
little  yard  from  the  adjoining  garden,  and  was  being 
vigorously  pulled.  I could  hear  suppressed  laughter 
and  whispering,  the  conspirators  were  just  the  other 
side.  I did  not  hesitate,  and  without  the  slightest 

69 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


warning  I threw  the  contents  of  the  pail  over  the 
wall.  They  must  have  been  drenched,  for  the  yell 
they  gave  could  have  been  heard  in  Wellington 
Road.  I gave  the  string  a sharp  pull  and  it  came 
away  in  my  hand,  and  I went  back  to  bed  again. 

Curiously  enough,  the  recollection  of  this  practical 
joke  stood  me  in  good  stead  shortly  after.  I was 
invited  to  a week-end  shooting  party  at  a big  country 
house  some  distance  from  London,  and  had  looked 
forward  with  much  delight  to  going,  as  the  place  is 
considered  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  the  old 
Tudor  mansions  in  England,  and  has  several  ghosts, 
as  every  well-ordered  place  of  its  class  should  have. 

I well  remember  how  impressed  I was  by  the 
first  view  one  obtained  of  the  hall,  as  we  drove 
up  to  it  through  the  park.  It  was  a moonlight 
night  in  late  autumn,  and  the  stately  pile,  which 
reminded  one  curiously  of  Hampton  Court  Palace, 
stood  out  in  weird  relief  against  the  sky.  It  looked 
like  a haunted  castle  from  the  outside,  but  the 
gloomy  interior  conveyed  a still  further  impression 
of  the  supernatural.  One  entered  by  a vestibule 
which  led  into  a vast  white  marble  hall,  in  which 
were  statues  and  busts  of  past  noble  owners  of  the 
place ; a gallery  ran  round  this  hall,  out  of  which 
many  dark  panelled  doors  led,  and  it  was  but  faintly 
illumined  by  candles  placed  here  and  there. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  imagine  anything 
more  ghost-like.  Even  the  white-haired  old  butler 
seemed  quite  in  keeping  with  his  surroundings.  I 
was  received  by  my  host  in  the  library,  where  a huge 
fire  helped  to  liven  up  the  otherwise  gloomy  apart- 
ment, and  I was  introduced  to  my  fellow  guests. 
We  were  a small  bachelor  party,  only  six  in  all,  but 
it  was  a cheery  crew,  and  one  felt  at  home  at  once. 
Shortly  after  we  were  told  where  our  respective 
rooms  were,  and  separated  to  dress  for  dinner.  I 
went  upstairs  to  my  room,  piloted  by  a young  officer, 
who  had  stayed  in  the  house  before. 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


The  broad  staircase  leading  to  the  upper  part  of 
the  building  was  magnificent,  and  appeared  still 
more  so  in  the  flickering  candle-light,  which  cast 
curious  effects  on  the  family  portraits  lining  the 
walls.  We  passed  a gloomy  corridor  on  one  of  the 
landings. 

“ Of  course  you’ve  heard  the  place  is  haunted,” 
whispered  my  companion.  “Well,  this  is  where 
one  of  the  ghosts  is  usually  seen,  they  say.” 

“ It’s  just  the  sort  of  place  one  would  expect  such 
things,”  I replied,  peering  into  the  shadows  ; and  I 
felt  as  though  a draught  of  air  suddenly  went  down 
my  back. 

“ That’s  why,”  he  continued,  “ it’s  so  difficult  to  get 
servants  to  stop  here  ; they  hear  all  the  talk  about  it  in 
the  village  and  get  jumpy.  There’s  a young  footman 
in  the  County  Asylum  now  who  went  raving  mad  at 
what  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  on  this  very  spot 
one  night  a little  while  ago.  Cheery  sort  of  place, 
isn’t  it  ? ” he  remarked  with  a laugh  as  we  went  on — 
and  I agreed  with  him. 

My  bedroom  was  quite  in  keeping  with  the  house, 
and  although  there  was  a bright  fire  in  the  hearth 
the  four-post  bedstead  and  old  furniture  looked  very 
gaunt  and  sepulchral,  and  the  walls  were  covered 
with  gloomy  portraits.  It  was  a very  big  room,  and 
had  four  doors  in  it.  My  friend  came  in  when  I 
was  dressed  to  lead  the  way  downstairs  to  the 
library  again,  in  case  I missed  my  way. 

Dinner  was  quite  a lively  affair  considering  the 
smallness  of  the  party  as  compared  with  the  size  of 
the  room,  Our  host  had  an  excellent  chef  \ and  the 
wine  was  perfect.  Afterwards  we  adjourned  to  the 
smoking-room  and  settled  ourselves  down  to  our 
coffee  and  cigars,  and  I found  myself  chatting  with 
my  host.  He  was  anxious  to  hear  my  first  impres- 
sions as  an  artist  of  the  house,  of  which  he  seemed 
very  proud,  as  well  he  might  have  been,  so  he 
suggested  later  to  have  the  place  lighted  up  and 

7i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  show  us  all  round  that  night — a sort  of  personally 
conducted  tour.  Off,  then,  we  all  went  through  inter- 
minable suites  of  rooms  with  magnificent  pictures 
and  furniture  and  endless  corridors,  looking  very 
weird  in  the  subdued  light  of  the  candles  in  the 
old-fashioned  chandeliers.  Kings  and  queens  of 
England  had  stayed  in  the  place,  and  every  corner 
seemed  to  have  a history.  There  were  no  less  than 
forty  guests’  bedrooms,  we  were  told,  and  nothing 
had  been  altered  for  generations.  Since  then  the 
place  with  all  its  contents  has  been  sold,  and  it  is 
now  completely  transformed,  and  in  the  possession 
of  a well-known  alien  financier. 

When  we  returned  to  the  smoking-room  the  con- 
versation somehow  turned  on  the  supernatural,  which 
was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  the 
surroundings.  Most  of  the  company  affected  to 
smile  at  such  superstition,  and  there  was  quite  a 
psychical  discussion  on  the  pros  and  cons  of  the 
subject,  in  the  course  of  which  the  dreaded  spectres 
of  the  house  we  were  in  were  mentioned.  Still  the 
sceptics  prevailed,  whereat  an  elderly,  hard-headed 
barrister  declared  that  in  his  opinion  men  had  been 
hanged  on  far  less  evidence  than  there  was  in 
favour  of  the  existence  of  ghosts.  All  this  was  very 
cheerful,  as  may  be  imagined,  in  a haunted  house 
at  midnight. 

“Well,  ghosts  or  no  ghosts,  I’m  off  to  bed  since 
we’ve  got  to  be  up  early,”  said  some  one,  taking  up 
his  candlestick.  The  others  followed,  and  although 
I wanted  to  go  also,  I found  myself  engaged  in 
conversation  with  my  host  just  at  the  moment,  so 
we  were  left  alone. 

A few  minutes  after  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and 
he  suddenly  jumped  up,  saying  he  had  no  idea  it  was 
so  late,  and  that  if  I wanted  to  have  a read  and  didn’t 
want  to  go  to  bed  yet  there  was  no  hurry,  I could 
easily  find  my  way  upstairs  to  my  room  by  myself, 
as  his  was  in  the  other  wing,  and  with  a pleasant 

72 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


good-night  he  left  me.  The  sound  of  his  footsteps 
echoed  through  the  hall,  then  all  was  silent  save  for 
the  moaning  of  the  wind  through  the  corridors. 

I am  not  superstitious  as  a rule,  but  after  the 
conversation  I felt  just  a bit  “ nervy.”  The  candles 
were  burning  low  in  the  sconces,  so  there  was  naught 
for  it  but  to  go  to  bed.  Picking  up  my  candlestick, 
I carefully  extinguished  all  the  lights  in  the  room, 
and  made  my  way  across  the  marble  hall  and  up  the 
grand  staircase.  As  I gradually  approached  the 
corridor  where  the  footman  had  seen  the  apparition, 
I admit  I felt  a creepy  sensation  down  my  back,  and 
my  hair  appeared  to  become  rigid — but  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  continue  going  upstairs.  At 
this  moment  the  moaning  of  the  wind  seemed  to 
increase  till  it  was  almost  a shriek. 

Suddenly  on  looking  over  my  hand  which  was 
shading  the  candle,  I distinctly  saw  something  going 
up  the  stairs  just  ahead  of  me,  and  turn  down  the 
corridor.  I had  no  time  to  distinguish  what  it  was, 
for  at  that  moment  my  candle  blew  out.  I stood  in 
the  dark  rooted  to  the  spot  with  horror.  My  heart 
jumped  into  my  mouth.  I was  about  to  shriek  out, 
when,  as  though  with  a flash,  the  thought  crossed  my 
mind,  “ Perhaps  they  are  having  a practical  joke  on 
me,  and  I am  being  watched.  I mustn’t  show  the 
white  feather.”  It  was  only  an  idea,  but  it  brought 
me  back  to  my  senses,  and  in  an  instant  I felt  as  cool 
as  a cucumber.  Taking  out  a match  I calmly 
relighted  my  candle  and  then  a cigarette,  and 
proceeded  upstairs  to  my  room  slowly.  Once  there, 
I had  a good  look  round  to  prepare  against  possible 
surprises  during  the  night. 

It  was  ghostly  looking  enough  in  all  conscience 
sake,  but  that  no  longer  perturbed  me.  As  I have 
explained,  there  were  four  doors  in  the  room ; these 
I proceeded  to  examine.  On  opening  them  I 
discovered  a recess  formed  by  the  thickness  of  the 
wall,  then  another  door  leading  into  the  adjoining 

73 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

rooms,  all  of  which  were  unoccupied.  None  of  the 
doors  had  keys  or  bolts  and  I didn’t  like  to  barricade 
them,  when  I thought  of  something  that  would  effectu- 
ally prevent  any  one  entering  my  room  unawares.  On 
the  floor  in  front  of  each  door  I placed  some  object — 
a chair  lying  down,  the  washhand  jug,  the  basin  with 
water  in  it,  and  the  coal-scuttle.  I then  went  to  bed, 
and  although  the  firelight  worried  me  a bit  at  first  I 
soon  fell  asleep. 

I was  awakened  by  a loud  crash  and  lusty 
swearing.  I sat  up  in  bed  in  affright  for  a moment, 
trying  to  collect  my  wits  and  remember  where  I was, 
for  it  was  pitch  dark.  Then  I heard  the  intruder 
groping  his  way  across  the  room.  Something  was 
unfastened,  and  the  next  instant  a flood  of  sunshine 
came  through  the  window.  It  was  morning,  and  a 
man-servant  had  come  in  with  my  tea.  He  had  fallen 
over  the  chair  and  barked  his  shins  and  broken  the 
tea  things,  and  was  standing  gazing  with  blank 
astonishment  at  the  extraordinary  arrangement  of 
the  room.  I tried  to  explain  to  him  the  reason  for  it 
all,  but  I had  a notion  after  he  went  out  that  he  had 
his  own  ideas  on  the  subject. 


74 


CHAPTER  VII 


My  first  visit  to  the  office  of  the  Illustrated  London  News — The  office- 
boy  and  my  drawing — Mr  Mason  Jackson,  the  Art  Editor — I meet 
Mr  William  Ingram — His  encouragement  and  acceptance  of  my 
drawing — A fateful  morning  for  me — Engaging  personality  of  Mr 
William  Ingram  and  his  brother  Mr  Charles  Ingram  — Their 
remarkable  ability — Fascination  of  the  office — A private  club — 
Interesting  men  there — Lunching  places  in  the  neighbourhood — 
Carrs — The  Devereux — Wilkinson’s  d.  la  mode  beef  shop — 
Illustrated  Journalism  in  those  days — Drawing  on  the  wood — 
The  art  of  the  wood  engraver — The  “Special  Artist” — An 
amusing  anecdote. 


I had  not  been  long  in  my  new  studio  when  some- 
thing came  to  pass  which  had  a very  important 
bearing  on  my  ultimate  career.  One  fine  morning 
when  1 felt  it  would  do  me  no  harm  to  have  a few 
hours  off,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  to  try  my 
luck  and  submit  a black  and  white  drawing  to  one 
of  the  illustrated  papers,  so  selecting  a specimen 
of  my  work  that  I had  given  special  care  to,  I put 
on  my  best  suit  of  clothes,  made  myself  look  as  smart 
as  possible,  and  went  down  to  the  office  of  the 
Illustrated  London  News.  In  those  days  the  editorial 
office  was  in  an  old  building  in  Milford  Lane,  almost 
opposite  the  present  one,  and  known  as  Milford 
House. 

I had  anticipated  no  difficulty  whatever  in  seeing 
the  Editor,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  called 
on  one,  and  therefore  did  not  know  of  the  obstacles 
to  be  surmounted  before  admittance  to  an  editorial 
sanctum  could  be  obtained,  if  one  was  quite  unknown ; 
— so  I was  a bit  disappointed  when  a mere  office  boy 

75 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

informed  me  that  if  I gave  him  my  drawing  he  would 
take  it  in  to  the  Art  Editor,  Mr  Mason  Jackson,  and 
I could  wait  if  I liked,  but  that  he  did  not  think  he 
would  see  me,  as  he  was  very  busy,  or  something  to 
that  effect.  This  was  scarcely  what  I had  expected, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it,  I felt  it  was  the  usual 
procedure,  so  I took  the  drawing  out  of  its  paper  and 
the  youth  picked  it  up  with  bored  carelessness  and 
left  me  standing  in  the  passage. 

I shall  never  forget  my  first  impression  of  the  office 
of  the  News , and  even  now,  after  all  these  years,  the 
smell  of  printers’  ink  always  recalls  it. 

George  Augustus  Sala  used  to  say  that  a mere 
glimpse  of  the  interior  of  Charing  Cross  Station  when 
he  passed  by  in  the  Strand  was  sufficient  to  always 
remind  him  of  Italy  and  the  Sunny  South,  and  make 
him  long  to  be  catching  a train  and  going  abroad. 

How  it  came  about  with  me  I do  not  know,  but 
I recollect  that  whilst  waiting  in  the  dingy  office 
visions  rose  in  my  mind  of  wars — of  perilous  travel 
in  far-away  lands — of  glorious  adventure,  and  all 
the  exciting  and  arduous  work  of  the  “ Special 
Artist”  or  correspondent  of  a big  paper,  and  in 
the  few  moments  I was  kept  waiting  I had  made 
up  my  mind  what  my  career  should  be  henceforth 
if  I could  have  any  say  in  it.  No  humdrum  studio 
life  for  me,  I would  see  the  world — and  if  needs 
be  exchange  the  brush  for  pen  and  pencil. 

I was  aroused  from  my  train  of  thought  by  the 
return  of  the  office  boy,  who  informed  me  to  my 
delight  that  the  Editor  would  see  me,  and  I was 
forthwith  ushered  into  Mr  Mason  Jackson’s  room. 

If  I had  been  impressed  with  the  outer  office,  it 
may  be  imagined  what  my  feelings  were  now.  I 
felt  like  a child  in  a toy  shop.  The  room  was 
littered  with  copies  of  the  paper — photographs  and 
black  and  white  drawings,  wood  blocks  were  every- 
where— on  shelves,  in  open  cupboards,  and  on  the 
floor.  At  a table  in  the  centre  sat  a benevolent- 

76 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


looking  elderly  gentleman  with  a grey  beard ; this 
was  the  Art  Editor.  Standing  by  his  side  was  a 
young  man  to  whom  he  was  giving  instructions 
with  reference  to  a print  he  had  before  him. 

“ Mr  Price,  sir,”  introduced  the  boy. 

Mr  Jackson  looked  up,  and  said  did  I mind  wait- 
ing a moment — of  course  I didn’t. 

His  table  was  covered  with  war  sketches  evidently 
just  received  from  Melton  Prior  who  was  at  the  time 
in  Egypt,  and  there  was,  as  it  were,  I thought  an 
atmosphere  of  the  battlefield,  strangely  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  room,  about  these  thin  sheets  of  paper 
lying  carelessly  about.  After  a few  moments  the 
young  fellow  left  the  room,  and  Mr  Jackson  rising 
from  his  seat  came  towards  me  with  my  drawing 
in  his  hand.  In  kindly  tones  he  expressed  his  regret 
that  he  could  not  make  use  of  it,  but  if  I had  any- 
thing else  at  any  other  time  to  show  him  he  would 
be  glad  to  see  it — mere  polite  platitudes,  I thought — 
so  I felt  very  mortified  and  dejected  as  my  hopes 
had  gone  up  on  the  strength  of  his  seeing  me,  for 
I was  young  then,  and  unused  to  disappointments. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said,  so  I started  wrapping 
up  the  drawing  again.  As  I was  doing  so  a gentle- 
man came  bustling  into  the  room — a breezy  cheerful 
looking  man  of  about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  he  held 
a proof  sheet  of  a picture  in  his  hand,  and  from  his 
manner  was  evidently  some  one  of  importance.  It 
was  Mr  William  Ingram,  the  present  baronet,  and  one 
of  the  proprietors  of  the  paper.  If  he  had  come  in 
two  minutes  later  I should  have  been  gone.  He  saw 
me  tying  up  my  parcel. 

“What  have  you  got  there — a drawing?  Let  me 
see  it.” 

I took  it  out  again,  and  he  went  with  it  to  the 
window,  where  he  examined  it  critically,  and  then 
turning  to  me  asked  about  my  work  and  where  I had 
studied.  He  seemed  interested,  and  after  a pause 
said,  “ I’ll  use  this  drawing  ; come  and  see  me  when 

77 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


you’ve  got  some  more  to  show.  You  might  do  some 
work  for  me.” 

I felt  too  delighted  and  excited  to  say  more  than 
to  express  my  thanks.  In  the  light  of  my  subsequent 
travels  and  campaigns  for  the  paper  that  meeting 
with  Mr  William  Ingram  that  morning  was  indeed 
fateful. 

From  that  day  I got  on  most  friendly  terms  with 
him  and  his  brother  Charles,  whom  I subsequently  met. 
Scarcely  a week  passed  without  my  going  down  to 
the  office  and  submitting  a drawing  or  a suggestion 
for  work — of  course  with  varying  success. 

I found  the  Ingrams’  charming  personalities,  and  I 
always  felt  flattered  to  be  reckoned  amongst  their 
friends.  William  Ingram  was  then  Editor  in  chief, 
manager,  and,  in  fact,  every  thing  in  the  office,  al  though 
he  was  ably  seconded  by  his  brother.  I was  not 
long  in  realising  that  underlying  their  remarkable 
unconventionality,  and  almost  boyish  impetuosity, 
was  a wonderful  faculty  for  grasping  in  an  instant 
the  possibilities  of  any  suggestion  laid  before  them. 
If  they  said  “no”  to  anything  it  was  practically 
certain  there  was  “nothing  in  it.”  It  was  the 
personal  magnetism  of  the  two  brothers  that  some- 
how made  me  stick  to  the  News , for,  curiously  enough, 
although  there  was  never  anything  of  a binding 
nature  between  me  and  the  paper,  yet  I should  not 
have  dreamed  of  offering  my  black  and  white  work 
elsewhere,  and  I never  had  cause  to  regret  it. 

There  was  to  me  an  indescribable  fascination 
about  “the  office”  which  I should  have  found  it 
difficult  to  explain,  though  perhaps  it  was  because 
I was  always  hoping,  Micawber-like,  that  something 
would  turn  up,  and  at  any  moment  I might  get 
“ marching  orders,”  and  be  off  somewhere  across 
the  seas.  I realised  that  there  was  within  me  a 
latent  fire  of  restless  activity  which  impelled  me 
to  go  down  to  the  office.  Meanwhile  I soon 
found  out  that  once  one  had  one’s  entree  at 

73 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


the  News  you  could  drop  in  whenever  you  chose. 
There  was  no  necessity  to  send  in  your  name ; it 
was  almost  like  a private  club  where  they  were 
pleased  to  see  you,  and  you  were  pretty  sure  of 
meeting  a friend  to  have  a yarn  with,  and  hear 
all  the  gossip  of  the  paper  in  which  we  all  felt 
we  had  an  interest.  Such  a delightfully  free  and 
easy  state  of  affairs  could  not  exist  in  a news- 
paper office  nowadays. 

I realise  more  than  ever  the  march  of  time  when 
I go  down  to  the  palatial  offices  of  the  paper  now 
and  try  and  recall  the  building  as  it  was  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  when  I used  to  go  there  as  a youth 
— for  all  is  so  changed  now  that  it  is  unrecognisable. 
What  an  interesting  crowd  of  men  it  was,  too,  that 
one  met  there.  Old  William  Simpson,  the  veteran 
of  War  Artists  (who  was  out  in  the  Franco-German 
War);  Melton  Prior,  the  ubiquitous  “ Special,”  seldom 
in  London  for  long ; Caton  Woodville ; Forestier, 
with  his  delightful  pen'and  ink  work,  newly  arrived 
from  Paris ; Montbard,  the  communist,  another 
clever  French  draughtsman  ; Seppings  Wright,  the 
News  authority  on  warships,  and  dear  old  John 
Latey,  the  popular  editor  of  the  Penny  Illustrated. 
Perhaps,  though,  one  of  the  most  important  men  at 
the  office  in  our  eyes,  after  the  Ingrams,  was  the 
genial  cashier,  Lister  Goodacre,  because  he  could 
hurry  the  cheques  through,  and  many  an  I.O.U. 
would  he  cash  on  his  own  responsibility ; but  this 
was  years  before  the  paper  was  turned  into  a big 
company,  and  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  newspaper 
artist. 

Several  of  us  would  often  go  out  and  lunch  together, 
either  across  the  road  to  Carrs,  where  many  well- 
known  journalists  used  to  gather,  or  round  to  the 
“ Devereux,”  a quiet  little  old-fashioned  place  where 
you  got  perhaps  the  best  chop  or  steak  and  boiled 
potatoes  in  the  neighbourhood,  or  else,  if  we  wanted 
to  do  it  on  the  cheap,  to  Wilkinson’s  a la  mode  beef 

79 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


shop  in  Fleet  Street,  where  for  less  than  a shilling 
you  could  have  quite  a good  feed  if  you  did  not 
mind  the  crowd,  which  was  pretty  rough.  And  after 
lunch,  if  Melton  Prior  was  in  town,  we  would  perhaps 
go  up  and  have  a smoke  in  his  room  in  the  building 
in  the  Strand  before  returning  to  our  work. 

Those  were  the  days  of  drawing  on  the  wood  and 
the  wood  engraver,  and  to  be  of  any  real  use  to  an 
illustrated  paper  one  had  to  be  proficient  in  this 
particular  branch,  which  was  almost  an  art  in  itself. 
It  took  some  little  time  to  get  accustomed  to  draw- 
ing on  the  block  itself,  as,  of  course,  everything  had 
to  be  reversed. 

Art  reproduction  has  made  such  vast  strides  since 
those  days  that  it  may  possibly  be  of  interest  to 
recall  the  tedious  methods  by  which  a newspaper 
drawing  was  then  reproduced  by  wood  engraving 
before  the  advent  of  mechanical  reproduction.  The 
wood  block  was  made  up  of  several  pieces  of  box- 
wood keyed  together  so  perfectly  as  to  form  a 
smooth  surface  on  the  front.  When  the  drawing, 
which  was  either  in  wash  or  pencil,  was  finished, 
the  block  was  handed  to  the  wood  engraver,  and 
if  it  was  required  urgently  it  would  be  un  - keyed 
and  the  pieces  given  to  several  men  to  work  on, 
the  head  engraver  having  previously  marked  his 
suggestion  for  the  general  direction  of  the  lines, 
so  that  all  tallied  ultimately.  When  the  engravers 
had  finished,  the  pieces  would  be  re-keyed,  and  an 
“electro”  made  from  the  block  for  the  Press,  as 
the  printing  was  not  often  made  from  the  wood 
direct  as  in  olden  times,  for  fear  of  damaging  the 
block. 

In  these  days,  when  a picture  can  be  reproduced 
in  a few  minutes  practically,  the  tedium  therefore 
of  wood  engraving  may  be  realised.  Still  it  was 
a wonderful  art  in  itself,  and  some  fine  results  were 
often  obtained  if  time  were  no  object,  and  it  seems 
almost  a pity  it  should  have  completely  died  out. 

80 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Of  course  a successful  reproduction  of  one’s  drawing 
was  largely  dependent  on  the  engraver’s  intelligence, 
who  apparently  would  often,  if  embarrassed,  follow 
out  Punch’s  famous  advice  to  bad  spellers,  “When 
in  doubt  make  a blot.” 

Photography  in  those  days  had  not  yet  even 
commenced  to  oust  the  draughtsman,  and  the 
“ Special  Artist  ” still  had  it  all  his  own  way  when 
any  war  or  big  event  was  on  the  tapis , for  the  rich 
amateur  correspondent  with  a camera  had  not  yet 
put  in  his  appearance,  fortunately,  so  the  work  was 
entirely  confined  to  a few  men  who  had  made  re- 
putations by  their  pencils  in  many  arduous  campaigns 
and  expeditions.  Now  and  again,  of  course,  a new 
aspirant  would  come  forward  when  something  un- 
expected happened,  and  if  the  regular  men  were 
abroad  would  get  his  chance  of  distinguishing  him- 
self ; but  it  was  seldom  they  achieved  honours,  for 
“ Special  Artists,”  like  war  correspondents,  are  born, 
not  made. 

There  was  a story  of  an  artist  who  was  sent  out  to 
a war  by  one  of  the  illustrated  papers.  It  was  his 
first  experience,  and  he  made  a failure.  The 
sketches  he  sent  home  being  very  poor  and  at 
times  quite  unintelligible. 

One  day  on  his  return  he  was  in  the  Editor’s  room, 
and  endeavouring  to  explain  that  it  was  not  quite 
his  fault  if  his  work  had  been  unsuccessful,  as  there 
was  no  time  to  draw  carefully  under  the  circum- 
stances. The  Editor  agreed  with  him  in  that  respect ; 
but  pointed  out  that  if  he  had  not  time  to  make  a 
recognisable  sketch  of  anything  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  indicated  in  writing  what  it  was 
intended  to  represent,  and  picking  up  one  of  the 
artist’s  sketches,  he  continued:  “Take  this  one,  for 
instance — since  you  say  you  were  in  such  a hurry 
that  you  had  not  time  to  draw  it  more  carefully, 
why  not  have  written  above  it  ‘ This  is  a windmill  ’? 
Then  our  artist  here  would  have  known  what  it 

81  F 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


was  intended  for,  instead  of  which  he  had  to 
guess.” 

“ But  it  isn’t  a windmill ; it’s  a man  on  horseback,” 
replied  the  artist. 

My  ambition  was  to  become  one  of  the  small 
group  of  “ Specials,”  and  I never  missed  an  oppor- 
tunity of  bringing  this  idea  of  mine  before  the 
Ingrams.  My  chance  was  to  come  later ; but  for 
the  moment  I had  to  be  content  with  the  peaceful 
atmosphere  of  a London  studio. 


82 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Off  to  the  South  of  France  to  finish  portrait — Adventure  en  route — 
Mentone  vid  Elysium — On  the  Riviera — A funny  incident  on 
return  journey — The  Frenchman  and  the  luggage — Painting  at 
the  docks,  an  episode — Curio-hunting  in  the  wood — Tea-parties 
in  studio — A good  joke — The  British  workman — Re-arranging 
the  drawing-room  — Summer  in  the  Scilly  Isles  — A large 
painting. 


Early  in  the  following  year  I received  an  invitation 
from  my  friends  in  Mentone  asking  me  to  go  down 
there  and  spend  a few  weeks  with  them  to  finish  the 
portrait.  So  one  miserably  cold  night,  when  it  was 
sleeting  and  raining,  and  all  London  shivering,  I 
started  for  the  South  and  the  sunshine  of  the 
Riviera.  I was  bound  on  a pleasant  mission,  with 
a jolly  holiday  in  front  of  me  and  all  my  expenses 
paid,  so  it  naturally  happened  that  I was  in  the 
highest  of  spirits,  and  filled  with  the  romantic  ideas 
of  a young  man. 

Such  being  my  enviable  state  of  mind,  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  a little  occurrence  at  the 
station  took  to  itself  the  proportion  of  an  adventure. 
Doubtless  most  young  fellows  have  had  similar  ones 
at  different  times  of  their  youth,  but  when  I recall 
this  particular  event  I remember  I felt  that  the  gods 
had  me  in  their  especial  good  graces. 

There  were  not  many  people  going  by  the  train. 
I had  arrived  in  good  time,  and  as  I sauntered  idly 
about  on  the  platform  before  we  started,  in  that 
aimless  but  enjoyable  fashion  which  I always  fancy 
is  part  and  parcel  of  the  commencement  of  a journey 

83 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


one  has  been  looking  forward  to,  my  eyes  became 
riveted  on  something  in  a heavy  travelling  coat 
that  seemed  to  me  the  very  embodiment  of  feminine 
charm.  She  was  wearing  a thick  veil,  so  it  was 
only  just  possible  to  guess  what  her  face  was  like ; 
but  from  the  glimpse  one  got  of  it  under  the  gas- 
light there  was  not  much  doubt  that  she  was  an 
exceedingly  good-looking  young  woman.  She  was 
alone,  judging  from  her  attire  evidently  going  abroad, 
and  when  my  discreet  glances  were  rewarded  by 
a faint  but  none  the  less  bewitching  little  smile, 
I felt  there  was  all  the  material  for  a very  delight- 
ful journey,  if  only  she  were  going  South  also. 

The  carriage  she  was  in  was  fully  occupied,  so 
there  was  no  chance  of  a tete-il-tete  as  far  as  Dover  ; 
but  I looked  forward  to  an  opportunity  during  the 
crossing,  and  that  glance  at  the  railway  station 
haunted  me  all  the  way  down  to  the  Coast.  On 
the  boat  she  must  have  disappeared  into  a private 
cabin,  as  I could  not  find  her.  At  Calais  still  no 
sign  of  her,  and  I began  to  think  she  must  have 
taken  the  Basle  train,  and  looked  upon  the  whole 
thing  as  an  opportunity  missed.  But  at  the  Gare 
de  Lyon,  while  I was  waiting  for  breakfast,  my 
attention  was  drawn  to  a group  of  waiters  apparently 
quarrelling  for  the  possession  of  a lady  traveller  who 
had  entered  just  in  front  of  me,  and  to  my  delight 
I recognised  my  charmeuse  of  the  previous  evening. 

Now  or  never  was  the  moment,  and  as  an  inspira- 
tion I decided  on  a bold  move.  Keeping  well  in 
the  background,  I marked  down  the  waiter  who  had 
captured  her,  and  as  he  passed  me  I told  him  to 
lay  my  breakfast  at  the  table  next  to  hers,  and 
then  sauntered  up  and  took  my  seat  nonchalantly, 
and  without  appearing  to  see  her.  When  she  raised 
her  veil  I saw  that  she  was  positively  beautiful 
(otherwise,  of  course,  the  story  would  not  be  worth 
relating).  Well ! She  was  going  south  as  far  as 
Cannes.  There  were  no  corridor  carriages  in  those 

84 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


days,  and  we  got  a compartment  to  ourselves,  and 
my  journey  to  Mentone  was  vid  Elysium,  so  it 
seemed  to  me,  I remember.  But  it  was  a romance 
with  one  chapter  only,  as  I never  saw  her  again, 
nor  did  I ever  discover  who  or  what  she  was. 

I had  one  of  the  jolliest  times  I ever  spent  whilst 
on  the  Riviera,  although  I was  supposed  to  be  there 
for  work,  for  in  the  intervals  of  my  painting  I 
managed  to  see  everything,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed 
myself. 

Of  course  I went  everywhere,  Monte  Carlo,  Nice, 
and  back  along  the  Coast  into  Italy,  and  enjoyed 
myself  as  I believe  only  a young  man  can  on  his 
first  visit  to  the  Sunny  South.  There  were  dances 
every  night  at  one  or  other  of  the  big  hotels, 
no  end  of  pretty  girls,  lots  of  pleasant  excursions, 
and  so  what  more  could  an  artist  want? 

Painting  under  such  delightful  conditions,  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  I did  my  very  best,  so 
the  portrait  was  at  length  finished,  not  a little  to 
my  regret,  and  packed  and  sent  off  to  Paris  en 
route  for  the  Salo?i.  I would  gladly  have  com- 
menced it  all  over  again,  as  it  had  been  a pleasurable 
task  from  the  very  start.  My  experiences  of  portrait 
painting  since  then  have  not  always  left  such  happy 
memories — rather  the  contrary,  in  fact. 

I should  have  liked  to  have  prolonged  my  stay  in 
the  South,  for  it  seemed  a pity  to  leave  the  lovely 
warm  sunshine  and  return  to  England,  where  from 
all  accounts  they  were  having  nothing  but  cold 
and  wretched  weather.  Still  there  was  no  help  for 
it,  and  I recollect  that  the  day  I left  it  seemed 
finer  and  warmer  than  ever,  and  an  ideal  spring 
morning.  Three  very  decent  young  Englishmen, 
whose  acquaintance  I had  made  at  Mentone,  were 
returning  to  England  also,  so  we  agreed  to  travel 
together  and  have  a mild  game  of  cards  en  route. 

Naturally  we  wanted  a compartment  to  ourselves. 
It  is  an  Englishman’s  weakness  to  desire  to  be 

85 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

isolated  when  travelling.  There  were  a lot  of  people 
going  by  the  train,  so  it  looked  like  a difficult  matter 
keeping  out  intruders  on  our  privacy  ; however,  we 
successfully  accomplished  this  at  Mentone.  The 
question  was  could  we  manage  it  further  on  at 
Monte  Carlo,  where  there  was  bound  to  be  a crowd  ? 
Suddenly  a brilliant  idea  occurred  to  one  of  us — 
and  we  immediately  carried  it  out.  We  had  a lot 
of  hand  baggage  with  us  in  the  carriage  — rugs, 
holdalls,  hand  bags — the  usual  paraphernalia  with- 
out which  Englishmen  seem  unable  to  travel,  so  we 
set  to  work  and  made  up  what  looked  like  a figure 
of  a man  lying  full  length  on  one  of  the  seats,  and 
when  it  was  completed  I must  say  it  was  really 
wonderfully  realistic,  as  we  had  even  put  a pair  of 
slippers  sticking  out  where  the  feet  were  supposed 
to  be,  and  a cloth  cap  on  the  head,  which  was 
made  of  a waistcoat  rolled  up.  Of  course  it  was 
facing  towards  the  wall.  It  was  splendid,  but  it 
had  a drawback  — it  took  up  too  much  room,  so 
we  were  a bit  cramped  ; but  it  had  to  be  life-size, 
and  we  had  made  a giant  while  we  were  about  it. 
However,  we  started  our  game  of  cards,  and  I am 
ashamed  to  say  that  we  played  practically  the  whole 
way  to  Marseilles,  and  the  lovely  coast  scenery 
we  were  going  through  passed  unheeded. 

The  dummy  figure  answered  its  purpose  admirably, 
and  looked  so  much  like  a very  sick  man  that  a mere 
glance  at  it  was  sufficient  to  deter  any  one  from 
getting  in — people  don’t  like  travelling  with  a malade. 
At  one  station  there  was  such  a crowd  on  the  plat- 
form that  we  felt  sure  that  some  one  would  at  last 
get  into  our  compartment,  and  sure  enough,  several 
people  made  quite  a determined  rush  for  it,  and  for 
a moment  it  looked  like  being  taken  by  storm — but 
we  had  forgotten  our  dummy  friend.  They  didn’t 
take  long  making  up  their  minds  to  crush  into 
another  carriage  rather  than  come  into  ours  when 
they  caught  sight  of  the  huge  mass  on  the  seat. 

86 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Just  before  we  reached  Marseilles,  officials  suddenly 
came  along  to  examine  the  tickets,  and  before  we 
had  time  to  do  anything  the  door  was  opened  and 
one  of  them  appeared. 

We  passed  him  our  tickets,  which  he  clipped  and 
returned  to  us.  Then  to  our  horror,  for  we  were 
hoping,  I think,  that  he  had  seen  through  our 
“dummy”  joke,  he  tapped  it  on  the  back  and  said 
gruffly,  “Your  ticket,  sir,  if  you  please,”  with  an 
accent  on  the  “if.” 

We  all  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  our  game, 
though  we  had  the  utmost  difficulty  in  keeping 
our  countenances.  As  there  was  no  reply  he  re- 
peated his  request  more  gruffly  this  time,  then  losing 
his  patience  at  the  continued  silence  he  exclaimed, 
“ I can’t  wait  here  all  day — kindly  wake  up  and 
let’s  have  your  ticket,”  at  the  same  time  emphasising 
his  remark  by  shaking  the  sleeping  figure  vigorously. 
The  result  was  obvious  — the  whole  arrangement  of 
and  rugs  came  apart,  and  the  head  rolled 
on  to  the  floor.  The  official  started  back  with  a 

scared,  “Norn  de  D de  D ” and  we  lost 

all  control  over  ourselves  and  burst  into  fits  of 
laughter. 

For  a moment  the  ticket-collecter  hesitated  what 
to  do,  then,  as  he  was  evidently  a good  fellow,  and 
with  a sense  of  humour,  he  joined  in  our  hilarity, 
and  laughed  so  heartily  that  other  officials  and 
several  people  came  to  see  what  all  the  merriment 
was  caused  by.  “ Ah,  ces  Anglais  comme  ils  ont 
des  idees  droles”  was  expressed  on  all  sides,  and 
it  was  lucky  for  us  it  was  treated  as  a joke. 

Talking  of  trying  to  keep  a carriage  to  oneself 
reminds  me  of  an  amusing  incident  that  a friend 
of  mine  told  us  happened  to  him  one  day  when 
he  was  starting  from  Paris  for  London.  He  was 
leaving  by  an  early  train,  and  as  he  had  had  a 
pretty  thick  night,  and  scarcely  been  to  bed,  he 
wanted  if  possible  to  have  a carriage  to  himself  as 

87 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


far  as  Calais,  so  he  bethought  himself  of  the  time- 
honoured  trick  of  placing  various  articles  of  personal 
luggage  on  all  the  seats  of  the  first-class  smoking 
compartment  he  had  selected,  so  as  to  make  it 
appear  the  carriage  was  fully  occupied.  Then  he 
settled  himself  down  in  a corner,  and  made  himself 
comfortable.  Many  people  came  along  and  were 
effectually  deterred  from  getting  into  the  carriage 
on  seeing  all  the  luggage  spread  over  the  seats. 
To  his  annoyance,  just  at  the  very  last  minute,  as 
the  train  was  about  to  start  a Frenchman  hurriedly 
got  into  the  compartment. 

My  friend  muttered  something  in  his  execrable 
French  that  the  seats  were  all  engaged,  but  he 
naturally  could  not  say  much  as  all  this  luggage 
was  not  supposed  to  be  his;  but  the  intruder  was 
evidently  too  pleased  to  have  caught  his  train  to 
notice  what  he  said.  Suddenly,  just  as  the  whistle  of 
the  engine  was  heard,  and  the  train  was  about  to  move, 
to  my  friend’s  amazement  the  Frenchmen  leaned 
out  of  the  window  and  called  out  excitedly  to  a 
porter  to  come  to  the  door,  and  then  began  rapidly 
to  hand  out  to  him  the  baggage  from  the  seats, 
telling  him  that  some  passangers  had  evidently 
lost  their  train,  so  it  was  no  use  their  luggage  going 
on  without  them. 

One  can  imagine  the  denouement , and  more 
especially  as  my  man  could  only  speak  a few  words 
of  French ; to  rush  to  the  window  and  arrest  the 
exodus  of  his  belongings  was  the  work  of  an  instant, 
as  the  train  was  actually  in  motion ; but  it  was  a very 
close  shave  indeed,  and  he  almost  lost  his  Gladstone 
bag  in  the  scurry.  As  he  sank  exhausted  into  his 
seat  his  fellow-passenger,  who  by  the  way  had  good- 
naturedly  helped  him,  looked  at  him  drily,  and,  with 
a twinkle  in  his  eye,  said  that  it  was  a bit  of  luck 
he  had  not  lost  his  things.  My  friend  made  no  reply, 
as  he  somehow  felt  that  the  Frenchmen  had  had 
a good  joke  at  his  expense. 

88 


HE  WAS  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  FLIRTING  WITH  HER  AND  CARRIED 
OUT  THE  IDEA  SO  CONSCIENTIOUSLY.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


My  life  for  the  next  few  months  presented  no 
incidents  of  a particularly  exciting  character.  Black 
and  white  work,  alternating  with  painting,  occupied 
my  time  pretty  fully.  I had  always  had  a penchant 
for  anything  connected  with  ships  and  the  sea,  which 
is  rather  curious,  for  it  is  not  that  I ever  had  any 
inclination  for  a sailor’s  life,  as  I am  a bad  sailor 
and  loath  to  be  on  the  sea  except  in  a dead  calm. 
My  actual  bent  was  for  soldiering ; but  the  sight  of 
the  sea  and  big  ships  always  carried  me  in  my  mind 
to  far  distant  lands  and  travels  and  adventures  in 
the  wilds. 

In  those  days  the  South  West  India  Docks  pre- 
sented busy  and  animated  scenes,  as  the  Australian 
sailing  clippers  berthed  there.  So  I used  to  spend 
happy  days  sketching  amidst  the  big  ships,  whilst 
conjuring  up  in  my  fancy  dreams  of  journeys  I so 
longed  to  be  starting  on,  and  which  were  eventually 
to  be  realised  beyond  my  wildest  hopes.  Many  a 
picture  did  I sketch  in  the  grimy  docks,  and  usually 
with  success,  as  they  appeared  to  be  my  particular 
line,  and  I always  managed  to  sell  them. 

I took  a pretty  girl  down  on  one  occasion,  and 
painted  her  on  board  the  Rodney , one  of  the  largest  of 
the  Australian  ships.  I had  a romantic  composition 
in  my  mind  (I  was  nothing  if  not  romantic  then),  and 
one  of  the  ship’s  officers,  a good-looking  fellow  with 
whom  I had  got  friendly,  kindly  offered  to  pose  for 
me.  The  picture  was  to  be  entitled,  “ It  may  be  for 
years.”  He  was  supposed  to  be  in  love  with  her, 
and  carried  out  the  idea  so  conscientiously  whilst  I 
was  working  that  at  last  I got  quite  jealous  of  him, 
and  the  girl  and  I had  a tiff  on  the  subject  in  the 
train  going  back,  and  she  told  me  she  couldn’t  help 
it,  she  adored  sailors.  I didn’t  take  her  down  to  the 
docks  again  ; as  I felt  instinctively  that  I was  running 
the  risk  of  her  being  carried  off  to  Australia  if  I did, 
and  I wanted  to  finish  that  picture. 

My  studio  meanwhile  was  gradually  becoming 

89 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


more  habitable,  by  that  I mean  more  furnished,  and 
I was  able  to  resume  the  charming  little  lunches 
and  tea-parties  which  had  been  so  enjoyable  in 
Marlboro’  Hill.  Tea,  in  particular,  was  always 
great  fun,  the  studio  was  so  conveniently  situated 
that  friends  would  frequently  turn  up  uninvited  in 
the  afternoon  on  the  chance  of  my  being  in,  and 
when,  as  often  happened,  there  were  not  enough 
cups  to  go  round,  the  most  extraordinary  make- 
shifts, such  as  are  only  found  in  a studio,  had  to 
be  utilised.  Talking  of  tea  reminds  me  of  a funny 
incident. 

I was  always  supposed  (I  say  “ supposed  ” advisedly) 
to  be  a bit  of  a ventriloquist.  WeJJ,  Jeph  was  with 
me  one  afternoon  when  two  nice  girls  arrived  just 
as  we  had  put  the  kettle  on,  so  it  turned  out  a lively 
little  tea-party.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met 
him,  and  they  found  him  very  entertaining,  for  he 
was  quite  a ladies’  man,  as  are  most  men  who  have 
lived  long  in  the  Far  East.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
him  to  draw  me  out  and  get  me  to  startle  them 
with  a little  ventriloquism,  as  they  did  not  know  of 
my  talent.  Nothing  whatever  had  led  up  to  it,  he  had 
not  hinted  at  it  to  me,  so  imagine  their  stupefaction 
when  in  a pause  of  the  conversation  he  turned  to  me, 
a propos  of  nothing,  and  remarked  casually,  “ There’s 
some  one  up  the  chimney,  Jules.”  Of  course  I knew 
at  once  what  he  was  driving  at,  but  I didn’t  feel  in 
the  mood  just  at  that  particular  moment  to  give 
an  entertainment,  so  I pretended  not  to  hear  him. 

After  a pause  he  repeated  his  remark,  this  time 
with  emphasis  ; I saw  the  ladies  now  look  at  each 
other  enquiringly,  as  indeed  they  might,  for  it  was 
certainly  a curious  statement  for  him  to  make,  as 
there  was,  I forgot  to  mention,  a fire  in  the  grate. 
Again  I ignored  his  observation.  Nothing  daunted 
he  persisted,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  our 
friends  if  they  hadn’t  also  heard  some  one  up  there. 
They  were  now  completely  bewildered,  and  began 

90 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  look  nervous.  Turning  to  Jeph  I said  with  mock 
gravity,  “ Look  here,  old  man,  are  you  suddenly 
dreaming  or  what?  How  can  there  be  anybody 
up  the  chimney  ? ” Seeing  then  that  it  hadn’t  come 
off,  he  agreed  with  me,  and  that  perhaps  after  all 
he  was  mistaken. 

The  two  ladies  took  their  departure  somewhat 
hurriedly,  I thought. 

Shortly  after  I saw  them  again.  They  referred 
to  our  tea-party,  and  mentioned  Jeph.  “ What  a nice 
fellow  he  seems ; but  has  he  had  sunstroke  out  in 
the  East  that  he  behaves  in  such  a peculiar  manner  ? ” 

“ Peculiar  manner ! in  what  way  ? ” I asked,  having 
completely  forgotten  the  incident. 

“ Oh,  when  he  talked  of  hearing  a man  up  the 
chimney ! ” 

Of  course  one  could  not  very  well  expect  dainty 
little  ladies  to  sit  on  packing  cases  and  drink  tea 
out  of  thick  china  cups,  and  really  enjoy  themselves. 
Bohemianism  was  all  very  well,  and  they  might  do 
it  once  or  twice,  but  they  had  to  like  you  very 
much  to  come  often  and  rough  it,  so  I spent  all 
my  spare  cash  fixing  myself  up  comfortably,  and 
it  was  really  surprising  how  far  a few  pounds  would 
go  when  judiciously  expended  in  an  old  furniture 
shop,  and  one  could  really  pick  up  bargains  in  those 
days.  I have  a fine  old  grandfather’s  clock,  for  which 
I only  gave  twelve  shillings  in  Henry  Street.  The 
dealer  wouldn’t  actually  guarantee  it  was  in  working 
order,  but  he  put  the  quaint  word  “ go-able  ” on  the 
receipt,  and  strange  to  relate  it  has  kept  splendid 
time  all  these  years. 

It  is  remarkable  what  a lot  of  rubbish  in  the  guise 
of  bargains  one  buys  when  one  has  a few  shillings 
to  spare.  Things  that  would  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances be  consigned  to  the  dust  heap  seem  to  acquire 
artistic  value  when  on  sale  in  the  “ antique  ” shop, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  a studio.  They  become 
“ decorative,”  and  that  means  a good  deal  in  a dusty 

9i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


atelier , so  I became  bitten  with  curio  - collecting 
mania,  and  have  had  it  ever  since,  with  results  which 
would  probably  be  very  disappointing  if  I am  ever 
forced  to  dispose  of  my  “ collection.” 

I soon  found  that  if  one  could  pick  up  odds  and 
ends  cheap,  it  often  cost  as  much  as  they  were  worth 
to  put  them  right.  A cracked  plate  would  want 
rivets,  a cupboard  a hinge  or  a key — in  fact  there 
was  always  something  wanting  that  had  made  them 
cheap,  and  this  reminds  me  of  an  experience  I had 
of  the  genus  British  workman,  which,  trivial  as  it  was, 
I always  recollect  when  I want  anything  in  the  least 
out  of  the  way  done. 

I had  bought  a cupboard  with  a rather  peculiar 
handle  to  the  door ; something  had  gone  wrong  with 
it  and  it  wouldn’t  turn  properly,  so  I got  a locksmith 
from  Cochrane  Street  to  come  and  put  it  right.  He 
came  and  looked  at  it  meditatively  and  went  away  and 
fetched  his  tool  bag ; then  he  took  off  his  coat,  put 
on  his  spectacles,  unscrewed  the  lock,  and  proceeded 
to  remove  the  works — informing  me  they  wanted 
oiling.  He  then  remembered  he  had  no  oil  with  him, 
so  I had  to  give  him  some  of  mine.  It  now  seemed 
pretty  plain  sailing,  and  with  the  remark  that  I should 
find  it  work  all  right  when  he’d  got  it  back  in  its 
place,  he  started  putting  it  together  again.  But  his 
fingers  now  seemed  to  have  suddenly  become  all 
thumbs ; as  fast  as  he  put  in  one  little  screw  another 
dropped  out,  and  he  was  busy  looking  for  them  and 
picking  them  up  from  the  floor.  Thinking  I was 
making  him  nervous  by  standing  looking  on,  I moved 
away  and  pretended  to  be  working. 

I could  hear  him  muttering  to  himself  as  he  kept 
dropping  bits  of  the  lock.  Then  he  suddenly  asked 
me  if  I could  lend  him  a screw-driver  as  his  was  no 
good — it  was  too  large  or  something.  I happened 
to  have  one  to  suit  him — so  off  he  started  again.  It 
must  have  been  hot  work,  for  he  kept  taking  off  his 
spectacles  and  mopping  his  forehead  whilst  he  was 

92 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


groping  for  odd  bits  and  screws  he  had  let  fall  on 
the  floor.  I continued  to  appear  to  be  absorbed  in 
my  work.  After  many  efforts  and  much  reviling  at 
himself  and  his  Maker  he  at  length  succeeded  in 
getting  the  lock  into  its  position  again,  when  suddenly 
in  an  extraordinary  attempt  to  hold  it  in  its  place 
with  his  right  hand,  whilst  with  his  left  he  extracted 
the  last  screw  from  the  back  of  his  mouth,  where  he 
had  placed  it  for  safety,  the  whole  thing  fell  to  the 
ground  and  came  to  pieces  again.  To  my  surprise 
he  made  absolutely  no  comment  this  time,  but  set 
to  work  again  and  apparently  replaced  it.  Then  he 
got  up  and  put  on  his  coat. . 

“ Have  you  done  it?”  I ventured  to  enquire. 

“No,  I give  it  best,  guv’nor,”  was  his  laconic  reply, 
and  picking  up  his  tool  bag  he  walked  out. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I became  aware  of  the 
existence  of  that  most  irritating  of  personalities,  the 
souvenir  collector.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I was 
beginning  to  “get  on,”  but  anyhow  I recollect  how 
it  would  jar  on  my  nerves  when  I discovered  that  I 
was  generally  expected  to  make  a sketch  portrait  or 
contribute  a drawing  to  my  hostess’s  collection  or 
album  if  I accepted  a week-end  invitation.  At  first 
I was  inclined  to  look  on  such  a request  as  a very 
charming  compliment,  till  on  one  occasion  I had 
placed  before  me  an  album  which  was  nothing  more 
or  less  than  a sketch  book  of  extra  large  size,  and  in 
which  were  already  several  highly  finished  drawings. 
“ Do  please  draw  something  in  my  book — anything — 
no  matter  how  rough.”  Then  it  flashed  across  my 
mind  that  I was  expected  to  “work  my  passage” 
as  it  were,  and  at  least  to  contribute  something  as 
important  as  what  was  already  in  the  book.  It  was 
an  extremely  ingenious  method  of  getting  together  a 
collection.  Doubtless  my  experiences  are  similar  to 
those  of  other  artists,  so  I feel  sure  they  will  agree 
with  me  that  to  give  something  of  one’s  own  accord 
is  one  thing,  but  to  be  asked  pointedly  for  it, 

93 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


whether  it  be  a sketch,  a song,  or  an  entertainment, 
is  quite  another  matter.  I have  often  thought  how 
curious  would  be  the  impression  of,  say,  a doctor  or 
a solicitor  if  they  found  they  were  being  asked  for 
professional  advice  gratis,  on  the  strength  of  being 
invited  to  a dinner  or  a week-end  party. 

My  experiences  in  this  direction  were  not  always 
confined  to  making  a drawing.  I remember  on  one 
occasion  spending  a week-end  with  some  friends. 
I had  already  done  sundry  sketches  in  their  “ album  ” 
so  might  have  reasonably  imagined  myself  immune 
from  further  taxation  in  the  souvenir  line.  To  my 
surprise  my  hostess  remarked  to  me  during  dinner, 
“ I am  going  to  ask  you  to  help  me  re-arrange  my 
drawing-room  before  you  go,  Mr  Price.  You’ve  got 
such  taste  in  these  matters,  so  I know  it  won’t  worry 
you,  etc.”  It  was  very  complimentary  on  her  part  no 
doubt,  but  it  was  merely  a variation  of  the  album 
trick,  and  I felt  irritated  beyond  measure  at  the  idea 
that  I had  been  invited  with  an  object,  and  was 
expected  to  be  busy.  Then  suddenly  an  inspiration 
for  a practical  joke  occurred  to  me,  and  I determined 
to  carry  it  out  and  have  my  revenge.  In  the  drawing- 
room she  broached  the  subject  again,  but  I adroitly 
managed  to  postpone  doing  anything  till  the  follow- 
ing evening. 

The  drawing-room,  I may  mention,  was  a very  large 
and  well-furnished  apartment  with  full-sized  grand 
piano  and  numerous  sofas,  cabinets,  pictures,  and 
the  usual  paraphernalia.  After  dinner  my  host  and 
hostess  were  so  insistent  on  my  carrying  out  my 
promise  to  re  - arrange  everything  that  I had  no 
compunction  in  following  up  my  scheme.  The  guests 
were  sent  into  another  room  in  order  to  more  fully 
appreciate  the  change  later,  then  seating  myself  in 
a corner  I persuaded  my  host  to  remove  his  coat  and 
waistcoat  as  “ there  was  work  to  be  done.”  “ We 
must  make  a thorough  alteration,  so  will  shift  the 
rugs  first,”  I said ; “ they  had  better  be  rolled  up  for 

94 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


the  moment,  and,  of  course,  the  piano  cannot  be  left 
where  it  is.  It  is  far  too  suburban  placed  that  way ; 
you  had  better  get  some  one  to  help  you  move  it.” 
So  an  obliging  guest  volunteered  his  services.  Well, 
to  cut  a long  story  short,  in  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  relate,  the  room  which  had  looked  very  cheerful 
before,  was  now  a complete  wreck,  and  had  the 
appearance  of  being  packed  up  ready  for  removal. 
Everything  was  stacked  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
even  to  the  pictures,  ornaments,  and  curtains.  I 
should  never  have  believed  that  so  great  a trans- 
formation could  have  been  accomplished  so  quickly. 

My  hostess  looked  on  meanwhile  with  a bewildered 
expression  on  her  face  ; but  she  said  nothing.  When 
all  was  complete  my  host  and  his  friend  mopped  their 
foreheads  and  waited  for  the  next  development.  I 
pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  thought.  “ What  do 
you  want  us  to  do  now  ? ” they  at  length  said. 
“ Don’t  disturb  me,  I am  thinking  it  out,”  I replied. 
“ I want  to  fix  up  something  really  original.” 

There  was  silence  for  a few  moments,  then  I started 
up  and  said  dramatically  to  my  hostess,  “ I’m 
awfully  sorry,  but  my  mind  is  a complete  blank,  and 
I can’t  for  the  life  of  me  remember  how  I intended 
to  arrange  the  room,  so  I suppose  the  best  thing  to 
do  is  to  put  the  furniture  back  as  it  was.”  The  look 
on  her  face  was  a study.  Without  a word  she  went 
out,  leaving  me  with  the  two  men. 

“ Shall  I lend  you  a hand  to  put  things  straight 
again  ? ” I asked  with  a laugh.  “ Not  much,”  said  my 
host ; “ I’ve  had  enough  of  furniture  shifting  for  one 
night.”  When  I got  down  the  next  morning  every- 
thing had  been  replaced  in  its  original  position. 

That  year  I was  consumed  with  the  ambition  to 
paint  something  important  for  the  Royal  Academy, 
so  I made  a careful  sketch  of  a subject  I had  thought 
out,  and  decided  to  paint  it  on  a very  large  canvas. 
I forget  the  dimensions,  but  I remember  I showed 
the  sketch  to  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  who  expressed 

95 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


his  approval  of  the  subject,  and  as  a sort  of  further 
encouragement  to  me  to  have  a shot  at  it,  said  he 
thought  that  if  I put  it  in  a very  narrow  frame  it  might 
have  a chance  of  getting  hung.  So  I went  off  in  the 
summer  holidays  to  the  Scilly  Islands  and  painted 
it  in  the  open  air.  It  represented  a stirring  life- 
saving episode,  and  I got  coastguards  as  models,  and 
being  nothing  if  not  conscientious  then,  I painted 
it  all  on  the  rocks  and  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sea, 
many  times  risking  my  life  in  my  determination  to 
get  the  effect  I wanted. 

The  Scilly  Islands  in  those  days  were  very  quiet 
and  primitive.  It  was  eternal  Sunday  there,  and  so 
few  visitors  that  it  was  possible  to  work  anywhere 
in  comparative  solitude,  and  when  not  painting  there 
was  excellent  deep  sea  fishing  and  wild  bird  shooting 
to  give  one  distraction,  added  to  which  the  curiously 
tropical  character  of  the  vegetation  made  one  almost 
feel  in  the  South  of  France.  So  I put  in  a very  jolly 
holiday  as  well  as  a lot  of  hard  work  on  the  picture. 


96 


CHAPTER  IX 


Unconventionality  of  Bohemianism — Evening  dress — “Going  to  have 
a bloater  for  tea  ? ” — A week-end  visit  to  my  friend’s  ‘ ‘ cottage  ” 
— The  impromptu  fancy  dress  dinner  party — The  denouement — 
Amusing  story  of  a fancy  dress  ball — The  story  of  the  bugler  and 
the  barman — Bacchanalian  entertainments — The  mysterious  drink 
— Stories  of  Bohemianism. 


I CAN  recall  nothing  of  a wildly  exciting  nature  as 
having  occurred  during  the  three  years  I spent  at 
No.  io  Blenheim  Place,  although  there  were  many 
interesting  incidents  which  at  the  time  became 
magnified  into  events,  but  only  by  reason  of  their 
comparative  significance,  as  a hillock  on  a straight 
level  plain  from  the  distance  assumes  the  importance 
of  a mountain.  I remember  that  I worked  hard  and 
played  hard,  and  I had  plenty  of  time  and  oppor- 
tunity for  both,  for  one  had  one’s  life  before  one, 
and  no  cares  beyond  getting  sufficient  to  pay  one’s 
rent,  firing,  and  occasionally  something  to  eat.  This 
may  sound  like  a solecism ; but  I really  fancy  it 
conveys  the  placid  state  of  mind  I was  in  during 
those  years. 

It  was  too  early  in  one’s  career  to  be  hide-bound 
by  conventionality ; if  one  chose  even  to  go  out 
without  a collar  or  tie  it  didn’t  matter  a jot.  One’s 
circle  of  influential  acquaintances  had  hardly  yet 
come  into  being.  Those  folk,  whose  opinion  of  our- 
selves we  attach  so  much  importance  to  in  later  life, 
did  not  worry  us  then. 

As  a man  I knew  remarked,  if  he  chose  to  go  out 
in  his  shirt  sleeves  the  people  who  knew  him  didn’t 

97  G 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


care,  and  he  didn’t  care  about  those  he  didn’t  know. 
Conventionality  in  every  form  was  laughed  at  in 
the  set  I used  to  frequent.  Most  of  my  artist  friends 
had  studied  abroad,  so  were  imbued  with  my  ideas 
of  what  Bohemianism  meant,  and  there  was  no 
humbug  about  us.  It  was  not  “pose”  in  any  sense 
of  the  word,  I am  convinced. 

We  had  not  a lot  of  money  to  spend,  so  why  try 
and  ape  those  who  had  it?  “ Going  to  have  a bloater 
for  tea,  old  man  ? ” asked  one  of  my  pals  of  me  one 
evening,  as  he  ran  across  me  in  the  street  as  I 
was  hurrying  along  to  a dinner-party  without  the 
slightest  idea  of  putting  on  “ side.”  Of  course  I was 
in  evening  dress,  which  afforded  him  the  opportunity 
for  his  really  funny  remark,  but  which  at  the  same 
time  echoed  his  notion  on  the  subject. 

The  mention  of  dress  clothes  in  connection  with 
Bohemianism  recalls  an  amusing  episode  of  this  kind. 
A friend  of  mine,  a distinguished  author  and  play- 
wright, had  invited  me  to  spend  a week-end  at  what 
he  called  his  “cottage”  in  the  country.  It  was  some 
little  distance  from  town  ; but  as  I happened  to  have 
enough  money  to  pay  the  railway  fare  I gladly 
accepted.  The  invitation  was  one  of  those  that  are 
first  given  casually,  and  which  are  never  accepted 
right  away  off — you  must  really  come  and  spend  a 
week-end  with  us,  old  chap,  sort  of  thing — no  date 
mentioned.  Well  this  time  he  fixed  it  up,  and  I 
said  I would  go. 

My  prospective  host,  I must  mention,  was  apparently 
as  typical  a Bohemian  as  myself,  and  although  I 
knew  he  made  a good  income  out  of  his  work,  it 
never  entered  my  head  that  he  was  in  any  sense  a 
society  man,  and  I had  looked  forward  to  a couple 
of  days  at  his  " cottage,”  in  our  usual  unconventional 
go-as-you-please  style.  With  this  idea  in  my  head 
I simply  bundled  a country  knickerbocker  suit,  a 
couple  of  flannel  shirts,  a dressing-gown,  and  a few 
necessary  odds  and  ends  into  a hand-bag,  jumped 

98 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


into  a ’bus,  and  caught  the  train  from  Paddington 
I had  been  told  I should  be  expected  to  come  by. 

When  I arrived  at  my  destination  I did  not  find 
my  host  waiting  for  me  as  I expected,  which  some- 
what surprised  me,  and  I was  obliged  to  make 
enquiries  as  to  the  best  way  to  get  to  the  house, 
which  I knew  from  what  I had  been  told  was  three 
miles  away  from  the  tiny  little  country  station,  when 
a porter  came  up,  and  touching  his  hat  respectfully 
asked  me  if  I was  going  to  Mr  So-and-so’s,  because 
if  so  they  had  sent  the  dog-cart  over  to  fetch  me. 

Outside  the  station  I found  a very  dapper  turn-out 
waiting  for  me,  so  smart  a conveyance,  in  fact,  that  I 
remember  I felt  ashamed  of  my  particularly  shabby 
and  unpretentious  “ Gladstone  ” as  it  was  hoisted  up 
behind. 

After  a drive  through  lovely  country  we  reached 
the  entrance  to  a park  with  a lodge  and  big  gates ; 
into  this  we  turned,  and  drew  up  at  last  at  a delightful 
old  country  house.  So  this  was  my  friend’s  “cottage” ! 
I realised  he  had  been  pulling  my  leg. 

A footman  in  livery  ushered  me  into  a spacious 
inner  hall  where  tea  was  in  progress,  and  I found  a 
large  party  assembled.  A glance  round  was  sufficient 
to  prove  to  me  that  this  was  not  Bohemia  at  all,  but 
smart  society,  and  I felt  hot  at  the  thought  that  I 
had  not  come  prepared  as  to  toilet  for  such  surround- 
ings. I had  not  even  brought  my  dress  suit  with  me. 
I was  then  struck  with  quite  a brilliant  idea,  as  will 
be  seen,  which,  if  I could  arrange  it,  would  save  me 
having  to  dress  for  dinner. 

My  host  and  his  wife  received  me  in  most  genial 
fashion,  and  I was  introduced  to  the  house  party, 
which  included  several  people  I knew  already,  so  I 
lost  no  time  in  putting  my  idea  into  execution,  and 
at  once  explained  that  I had  been  almost  on  the 
point  of  having  to  say  that  I couldn’t  come,  that 
some  important  work  had  turned  up  from  the  Paper. 
I should  therefore  have  to  get  them  to  excuse  me 

99 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


and  get  back  to  town  after  lunch  the  following  day 
at  the  latest.  My  friends  very  kindly  said  they 
would  be  sorry  to  lose  me,  but  if  I must  go,  of 
course  I must. 

During  tea,  which  was  very  lively,  I managed 
somehow  to  spring  my  idea  on  them.  It  makes  me 
smile  even  now  to  think  how  they  all  caught  on. 
Had  they  heard,  I asked,  of  the  latest  craze  at  week- 
end country  house  parties  of  having  impromptu 
fancy  dress  dinners.  Of  course  no  one  had  heard 
of  it  since  I had  only  imagined  it  half  an  hour 
previously.  They  thought  it  ought  to  be  splendid 
fun,  why  not  have  one  to-night,  suggested  one  of 
the  guests  — almost  taking  the  words  out  of  my 
mouth,  for  that  was  what  I was  driving  at.  What 
a capital  idea ! the  rest  chimed  in.  Well,  to  cut  a 
long  story  short,  after  a lot  of  talk  our  host  promised 
to  give  a prize  for  the  most  original  costume. 

It  was  agreed  that  every  one  would  appear  for 
dinner  in  fancy  dress  of  some  description,  no  matter 
how  ridiculous  and  incongruous,  so  long  as  it  was 
not  the  orthodox  evening  attire.  So  on  that  under- 
standing, and  with  much  laughter,  we  all  separated 
at  once,  as  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  and  every  one 
seemed  imbued  with  the  idea  of  evolving  something 
strikingly  novel.  It  may  be  imagined  how  delighted 
I was  at  the  success  of  my  ruse. 

Fortunately  I had  brought  with  me  a real  Japanese 
dressing-gownand  slippers, which  were  quite  curiosities 
in  their  way,  so  I had  no  need  to  worry  about  a 
costume.  Mine  was  ready,  and  had  the  additional 
advantage  of  being  delightfully  cool  and  comfortable 
and  easily  put  on ; as  a matter  of  fact  I had  nothing 
but  my  pyjama  trousers  under  it. 

Well,  as  arranged,  we  all  assembled  in  the  hall 
before  dinner,  and  although  each  arrival  was  received 
with  roars  of  laughter,  it  was  positively  amazing  how 
ingeniously  and  wonderfully  most  of  the  party  had 
managed  to  fix  up  fancy  costumes  out  of  the  most 

ioo 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


extraordinary  things,  and  at  such  short  notice.  One 
would  have  expected  ludicrous  results,  instead  of 
which  the  general  effect  was  quite  remarkable. 

I remember  I took  in  to  dinner  a lady  who  was  got 
up  as  a pierrette,  with  powdered  hair,  a hat  made 
out  of  an  ordinary  white  conical  jelly  bag  from  the 
kitchen,  with  black  pompoms  on  it,  black  pompoms, 
too,  on  the  white  bodice  and  short  skirt,  while  black 
silk  stockings  and  shoes  quite  completed  a fancy 
costume  that  would  have  held  its  own  anywhere. 

One  of  the  men  looked  like  a Mexican  with  the 
tails  of  his  evening  dress  turned  up,  low  collar,  big 
black  bow,  no  waistcoat,  red  sash  tied  round  his 
waist,  and  white  duck  trousers.  Nothing  could  have 
looked  more  effective. 

Every  one  had  done  his  or  her  best  to  look 
attractive,  and  it  was  a huge  success.  I won’t 
mention  what  was  said  about  my  “ costume,”  except 
that  it  held  its  own  well  with  the  others.  After 
dinner  we  finished  up  a delightful  evening  with  a 
dance,  and  all  agreed  that  I deserved  a medal  for 
my  happy  suggestion. 

The  next  day  I returned  to  town  “ to  get  on  with 
my  work.”  Shortly  after  I received  from  my  hostess 
a copy  of  a weekly  paper  in  which  was  a story  written 
by  her,  almost  exactly  describing  my  impromptu 
fancy  dress  dinner,  and  making  the  hero  of  the  piece 
also  an  artist ; but  it  finished  up  somewhat  differently 
to  my  episode.  It  told  how  the  artist  suggested  the 
party,  and  how  he  had  to  return  to  town  the  follow- 
ing day,  but  she  had  sacrificed  accuracy  to  effect  in 
the  denouement  which  she  had  made  distinctly  funny. 
“ I am  writing  ” said  the  hostess,  “ to  thank  you  for 
your  brilliant  suggestion  last  Saturday.  We  enjoyed 
the  fancy  dress  dinner  immensely.  Come  and  liven 
us  up  again  soon.  Yours,  etc.  P.S.  The  enclosed 
was  picked  up  in  your  bedroom  after  you  had  left.” 
The  “ enclosed  ” was  a pawn  ticket  for  a suit  of  dress 
clothes. 


IOI 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


It  is  odd  how  one  story  recalls  another.  The 
mention  of  fancy  dress  reminds  me  of  a curious 
experience  which  a friend  told  me  he  had  in  connec- 
tion with  a big  fancy  dress  ball.  He  was  very  keen 
on  these  dances,  and  put  himself  to  no  end  of  trouble 
and  expense  in  getting  himself  up  in  costume. 

On  this  particular  occasion  he  fancied  himself  as 
Charles  II.,  and  on  the  eventful  evening  a dresser 
came  from  the  costumiers  to  help  him  don  the 
costume,  as  it  was  a very  elaborate  and  difficult  one 
to  get  into,  unless  one  was  accustomed  to  making 
oneself  up,  and  besides  which  he  had  to  wear  a special 
wig  of  flowing  hair  and  a false  moustache  and  eye- 
brows. 

It  took  him  over  an  hour  to  complete  his  toilet, 
and  when  at  last  he  was  quite  ready,  and  to  his  satis- 
faction, he  looked  at  the  clock  and  discovered  he  was 
much  too  early.  So  having  had  a tiring  day  in  the 
city,  he  thought  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  have  a 
little  rest  before  going,  in  order  to  be  in  better  form 
for  dancing  and  an  all-night’s  enjoyment.  I forgot 
to  mention  that  he  had  been  looking  forward  to  this 
ball  for  a long  time,  as  he  expected  a very  special 
lady  friend  of  his  to  meet  him  there. 

Well,  he  got  the  dresser  before  he  left  him 
to  help  him  settle  himself  comfortably  in  front  of 
the  fire  in  his  large  arm-chair  in  such  a way  that  he 
should  not  disarrange  his  wig  or  crush  his  lace,  then 
telling  his  man  to  turn  down  the  gas,  and  that  he  was 
not  to  be  disturbed,  prepared  himself  for  a little  doze. 
His  description  of  the  way  he  was  spread  out  in  the 
chair,  like  a lay  figure,  was  screamingly  funny. 

The  next  thing  he  knew  was  waking  up  with  a 
start,  aghast — feeling  very  cold  and  stiff.  The  fire 
had  gone  out,  and  the  pale  grey  of  dawn  was  visible 
through  the  curtains.  For  the  moment  he  could  not 
recollect  where  he  was  or  what  he  was  doing,  then 
suddenly  he  remembered  the  fancy  dress  ball.  Up 
he  jumped  to  see  the  time.  To  his  horror  he  dis- 

102 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


covered  it  was  five  o’clock  in  the  morning — he  had 
slept  peacefully  in  the  arm-chair  since  nine  o’clock 
the  previous  evening.  His  language  may  be  imagined 
as  he  divested  himself  of  his  regal  apparel  and 
went  to  bed. 

Whether  or  not  unconventional  ideas  help  one  to 
get  on  or  make  anything  so  far  as  one’s  work  was 
concerned,  is  a matter  which  I will  not  pretend  to 
discuss,  although  I have  my  own  ideas  on  the  subject 
now.  I am  simply  recalling  my  impressions  of  those 
days  when  I was  well  on  the  right  side  of  thirty.  I 
loved  the  life  then. 

The  Bohemianism  which  existed  in  St  John’s 
Wood  in  my  time  would  not  be  possible  nowadays ; 
everything  is  so  changed,  and  possibly  for  the  better, 
although  there  are  doubtless  many  men  like  myself 
who  regret  the  transition.  It  is  not  that  we  would 
care  to  live  again  in  that  happy-go-lucky  fashion, 
but  the  thought  that  it  would  no  longer  be  con- 
doned in  these  days  of  taxi-cabs  and  motor  cars. 

Much  that  took  place  in  St  John’s  Wood  studios 
that  I knew  savoured  of  Montmartre  anglicised,  with 
the  exception  that  there  was  a good  deal  of  hard 
drinking — in  the  shape  of  whisky  especially — that  was 
non-existent  among  the  artists  in  Paris.  In  this  con- 
nection I recall  an  amusing  and  typical  instance  of 
this  particular  form  of  English  Bohemianism. 

On  Queen’s  Terrace  there  was  a small  public-house 
called  “ The  Knights  of  St  John’s,”  where  several  of 
us  used  to  meet  for  lunch,  as  they  provided  a really 
excellent  shilling  ordinary,  as  I have  said.  The  bar- 
man was  an  Army  Reservist.  He  had  been  a bugler 
in  some  cavalry  regiment,  the  5th  Dragoon  Guards,  if 
I remember  rightly. 

Opposite  the  “ pub  ” is  a narrow,  gravelled  alley 
leading  to  Finchley  Road.  In  this  passage  were 
several  studios,  and  the  one  nearest  to  the  “ Knights 
of  St  John’s”  was  occupied  by  two  artists,  one  of 
whom  was  rather  a clever  amateur  musician  as  well. 

103 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


They  were  neither  of  them  exactly  teetotallers — 
rather  the  contrary,  in  fact — and  as  they  were  fairly 
well-to-do,  they  dispensed  liquid  hospitality  with  a 
lavish  hand.  This  was  well  known,  and  they  had 
many  visitors  at  all  times,  the  result  being  that  it 
frequently  would  happen  that  their  stock  of  whisky 
or  other  refreshment  would  run  out.  As  they  kept  no 
servant,  living  as  they  did  in  the  studio  in  thorough 
Bohemian  fashion,  they  would  take  it  in  turn  to  go 
out  and  across  to  “ The  Knights  ” to  fetch  what  was 
required. 

Suddenly  a really  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  the 
musical  one.  He  was  rather  good  on  the  cornet,  so 
he  got  the  barman  to  teach  him  a few  military  bugle 
calls,  and  it  was  arranged  that  they  were  to  have 
certain  meanings  when  sounded  from  the  door  of 
the  studio — as,  for  instance,  if  he  gave  the  “ reveille  ,”  it 
meant  that  they  wanted  a bottle  of  whisky  ; the  “ last 
post,”  a bottle  of  gin  ; “ stables,”  a quart  of  bitter, 
and  so  forth — and  the  barman  would  send  it  over. 
The  scheme  answered  admirably,  and,  as  may  be 
imagined,  caused  much  amusement  in  the  vicinity. 

The  open-handed  hospitality  of  this  particular 
studio  was  well  known,  and  one  heard  of  wild  orgies 
there  at  times ; but  these  festivities  invariably  took 
the  form  of  drinking  bouts,  to  which  no  women  were 
ever  invited. 

I remember  a model  telling  me  that  on  one 
occasion  on  the  morning  after  one  of  these  Bac- 
chanalian entertainments,  on  arriving  at  the  studio 
at  io  o’clock  for  a sitting,  she  found  the  whole  floor 
of  the  place  covered  with  sleeping  revellers  lying  just 
where  they  had  fallen  on  being  overcome  by  the 
effects  of  the  carousing.  She  described  the  scene 
as  an  extraordinary  one,  as  it  doubtless  was. 

In  those  days  the  first  thing  a man  did  when  you 
went  to  see  him  was  to  ask  you  to  have  a drink,  and 
the  bottle  was  handy  at  all  times. 

A pal  of  mine  told  me  of  an  amusing  practical 

104 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


joke  he  played  late  one  night  on  an  acquaintance  he 
had  met  on  his  way  home,  and  on  whom  he  had 
taken  compassion  and  offered  a drink  at  his  studio. 
Of  course  he  did  not  refuse  ; but  on  the  way  my  friend 
suddenly  remembered  that  he  hadn’t  a drop  of 
whisky  left  in  the  place.  He  didn’t  know  what  to 
do,  so  when  they  reached  the  studio  he  pretended 
he  hadn’t  got  a match  on  him  to  light  the  gas,  so 
started  hunting  around  for  a box  in  order  to  gain 
time  and  think  out  how  to  break  the  dreadful  news. 
“ Don’t  bother  about  lighting  up  on  my  account,” 
said  his  guest.  “ I can  manage  to  find  the  way  to  my 
mouth  in  the  dark  ; let’s  have  the  drink  and  I’ll  be 
off.”  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  my  friend. 

An  empty  bottle  and  a jug  of  water  were  on  the 
table.  Picking  up  the  glass  he  said  he  would  give  him 
something  very  special,  and  pretended  to  pour  from 
the  bottle  into  it,  and  taking  up  the  jug,  put  the 
time-honoured  question,  “ Say  when  ? ” “ Oh,  full  up, 
I haven’t  had  a drink  for  nearly  a hour,  and  I’m  as 
parched  as  a limekiln,”  was  the  reply.  So  up  it 
was  filled  to  the  brim.  “ Well,  here’s  luck,  old 
man,”  said  he,  and  drank  off  the  glass  of  water  in 
one  gulp  without  even  stopping  to  take  breath. 
“ That  was  fine,”  he  said,  as  he  put  down  the  glass. 
“ I wanted  it  badly.  No,  I won’t  have  another — 
thanks  awfully,  good-night.”  The  next  day  they 
happened  to  meet  again,  and  the  visitor  of  the  previous 
night  remarked  to  my  friend,  “ That  was  a stunning 
drink  you  gave  me  yesterday.  What  was  it  ? ” 

Of  stories  of  Bohemianism  of  this  type  there  were 
no  end  ; one  could  probably  fill  a volume  with  them 
alone.  Here  are  some  more  sufficiently  funny  to 
bear  telling. 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  younger 
artists,  whose  name  I won’t  give  for  obvious  reasons, 
was  married  and  lived  with  his  wife  in  a sort  of 
studio  suite.  Their  married  bliss  was  only  marred 
with  one  thing,  and  that  was  the  weakness  of  the 

105 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


artist  for  boon  companions  and  whisky.  Otherwise 
he  was  a model  husband,  and  the  couple  were  devoted 
to  each  other.  The  curious  part  of  this  was  that 
he  would  leave  off  the  drink  for  days  at  a time,  and 
to  all  appearances  have  turned  over  a new  leaf, 
and  then  suddenly  by  an  uncontrollable  impulse  he 
would  break  out  again.  To  his  credit  it  must  be 
said  that  he  always  regretted  it  afterwards,  and  felt 
heartily  ashamed  of  himself. 

On  the  occasion  I am  about  to  describe  he  had 
been  exceptionally  “ good  ” for  quite  a long  time, 
and  had  been  quite  a model  Benedict,  so  much  so, 
in  fact,  that  his  wife  one  Saturday  evening  told 
him  that  it  would  perhaps  do  him  no  harm  to  go 
down  and  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  his  friends  at 
the  Savage  Club.  He  did  not  require  much  per- 
suasion, and  promised  not  only  that  he  would  not 
drink,  but  that  he  would  not  stay  out  late,  and  would 
be  back  again  before  twelve.  This  he  said  with  the 
sure  conviction  that  he  would  carry  it  out. 

The  inevitable  happened,  as  might  have  been 
expected.  He  was  a very  popular  fellow,  and  it  was 
nearly  five  o’clock  when  he  rolled  home.  He  was 
very  fuddled,  but  still  had  enough  intelligence  left 
to  realise  he  had  broken  his  word  with  his  wife. 

It  was  a lovely  summer  morning,  and  the  sun  was 
shining  brilliantly.  I forgot  to  mention  that  their 
bedroom  led  out  of  the  studio.  Taking  off  his  boots 
as  quietly  as  possible,  he  crept  into  the  room.  He 
was  in  luck’s  way  ; his  wife  was  fast  asleep  and  had 
not  heard  him  come  in,  so  he  undressed  and  tried  to 
climb  into  the  bed  without  disturbing  her ; but  he 
was  very  unsteady,  and  of  course  woke  her.  To  his 
surprise  she  turned  round  drowsily  and  asked  him 
why  he  was  “ getting  up  so  early.”  He  had  not  the 
heart  to  tell  her  he  was  only  just  coming  to  bed, 
when  an  inspiration  occurred  to  him,  and  he  told 
her  that  he  could  not  sleep  any  longer,  and  it  was 
such  a fine  morning  he  was  going  to  take  his  sketch 

1 06 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


book  and  the  dog  and  go  for  a stroll  up  to  Hamp- 
stead. And  he  actually  dressed  again,  tired  though 
he  was,  and  walked  up  to  the  Heath. 

The  other  story,  which  is  also  humorous,  was  of  a 
somewhat  similar  character.  Another  friend  of  mine, 
also  a married  man,  burst  out  now  and  then.  He 
had  on  this  particular  occasion  been  to  a card 
part)’,  and  when  at  last  he  made  his  way  homeward 
he  had  no  idea  whatever  of  the  time,  and  he  was  so 
knocked  up  that  he  fell  asleep  in  the  cab. 

The  cabman  woke  him  up  when  he  reached  his 
destination.  With  unsteady  steps  he  made  his  way 
to  his  street  door,  when,  much  to  his  astonishment, 
he  saw  it  was  unde  open.  The  discovery  had 
the  effect  of  instantly  pulling  him  together.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  get  into  a violent  rage  at  the 
carelessness  of  his  servant ; then  it  struck  him  that 
burglars  must  have  broken  in.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it  He  thought  it  best  not  to  alarm  the  house- 
hold, so  he  decided  to  wait  where  he  was  until  a 
policeman  came  along  before  he  did  anything. 

Whilst  he  was  standing,  or  rather  leaning,  against 
the  railing,  the  cook  came  out  with  a pail  of  water 
to  clean  the  steps ; she  had  left  the  door  open  while 
she  went  to  sweep  out  the  hall.  It  wras  a quarter  to 
eight  in  the  morning ! 

There  was  another  story  of  a somewhat  similar 
character  they  used  to  tell  of  a distinguished  music 
hall  artiste  who  also  lived  in  the  neighbourhood. 
He  w~as  a very  late  bird,  and  seldom  got  home  until 
well  on  in  the  small  hours.  On  one  occasion  he 
drove  up  to  his  house  at  9 o’clock  in  the  morning. 
A policeman  who  w^as  passing,  and  who  knew’  him 
well,  called  out  cheerily,  "Good-night,  sir.” 

In  the  quaint  little  alley  I have  referred  to,  w’hich 
led  from  Queen’s  Terrace  to  Finchley  Road,  there 
w’ere  only  studios,  and  I never  pass  through  it  with- 
out remembering  a funny  occurrence  there  one  day. 
Yeend  King  had  one  of  the  studios,  and  I often  used 

107 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  go  round  and  have  a smoke  with  him.  One 
Sunday  morning  I strolled  round  and  found  a typical 
top  - hatted  bourgeois  waiting  outside  the  door — a 
picture  - dealer  probably.  He  was  evidently  in  a 
great  state  of  irritation,  and  glad  of  an  opportunity 
to  air  his  grievance,  and  although  I was  quite  a 
stranger  to  him,  and  was  about  to  ring  the  bell,  he 
said  testily,  “ It  isn’t  any  use  doing  that,  I have 
been  waiting  here  for  over  an  hour,  and  he  hasn’t 
come  back  yet.  Disgusting  making  an  appointment 
and  keeping  one  waiting  like  this ! I have  a good 
mind  to  go  away  and  not  trouble  about  seeing  his 
damned  picture  at  all ! ” 

I then  saw  that  pinned  on  the  door  was  a card  on 
which  was  written  “Back  in  ten  minutes.”  Almost 
mechanically,  whilst  we  were  speaking,  I rang  the 
bell,  and  to  our  surprise  King,  palette  and  brushes 
in  hand,  opened  the  door  immediately.  He  nodded 
to  me,  then  turned  to  the  top-hatted  gentleman  and 
said,  “ I like  your  idea  of  keeping  an  appointment, 
I have  been  waiting  in  for  you  since  eleven  o’clock 
and  now  it’s  past  twelve.” 

I thought  I would  act  as  peacemaker  and  pointed 
to  the  notice  on  the  door.  It  then  appeared  that 
King  had  gone  out  for  a few  minutes  and  forgotten 
to  take  the  notice  off  on  his  return. 


108 


CHAPTER  X 


In  Paris  again  for  the  “Vernissage” — Amusing  incident  on  return 
journey — Keeping  a carriage  to  oneself — I meet  Captain  Hargreaves 
— The  Mount,  Bishopstoke — Delightful  hospitality — His  yacht 
Iattira — A particularly  pleasing  souvenir.  I join  the  “Artists’” 
Volunteers — Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  Colonel  the  South  London 
Brigade  — The  grey  - uniformed  regiments  — Distinguished  men 
amongst  the  officers  of  the  Corps — My  first  march  out — Easter 
Review  at  Brighton — Fun  out  with  the  girls — A practical  joke 
— Easter  Monday  Field  Day — Leighton,  an  ideal  Colonel — An 
instance  of  his  indefatigability. 


That  year  I exhibited  two  pictures  at  the  Salony 
the  portrait  I had  painted  at  Mentone  and  the  large 
canvas  which  I had  painted  at  Gorleston. 

I went  over  to  Paris  for  the  “Vernissage,”  and 
was  delighted  to  find  I had  been  very  well  treated, 
and  was  “ on  the  line  ” with  both  pictures ; whilst, 
judging  from  the  press  notices,  I had  been  “ spotted  ” 
also.  On  my  way  back  to  London  I had  a some- 
what curious  experience,  which  ended  in  a most 
pleasant  way. 

I was  leaving  by  an  early  train,  and  as  I had 
had  somewhat  of  a wild  time  the  previous  night, 
and  had  not  got  to  bed  until  an  advanced  hour  in 
the  morning,  I determined  to  try  and  keep  a com- 
partment to  myself  on  the  train,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  have  a good  sleep  as  far  as  Boulogne.  With 
this  idea  I got  to  the  station  in  good  time,  and 
having  found  an  empty  carriage  proceeded  to  occupy 
all  the  seats  by  placing  articles  of  baggage  every- 
where. Whilst  doing  so  I noticed  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, of  very  distinguished  presence,  with  a grey 

109 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


beard,  who  had  apparently  already  secured  his  seat, 
strolling  up  and  down  the  platform. 

Just  as  the  train  was  about  to  start,  and  I was 
settling  myself  in  my  corner,  congratulating  myself 
on  the  success  of  my  ruse,  he  appeared  at  the  door 
followed  by  a valet  carrying  a valise  and  hat  box, 
and  in  the  coolest  manner  got  up  into  the  com- 
partment in  spite  of  its  “full”  appearance.  His 
man  having  placed  his  baggage  on  the  rack  and 
left,  the  gentleman  then  turned  to  me,  and  in  the 
most  affable  way  enquired  if  I should  require  all 
the  corners,  because  if  not,  he  wouldn’t  mind  having 
one  himself.  Of  course  I had  no  option  but  to 
remove  my  things,  which  I did,  feeling  rather  small 
at  being  bowled  out  so  neatly.  As  he  sat  down 
he  remarked  with  a genial  laugh  that  he  was  an 
old  traveller,  and  had  often  tried  on  the  same  plan 
himself.  The  idea  seemed  to  tickle  him,  and  we 
soon  got  into  conversation,  when  I found  him  so 
sympathetic  and  entertaining  that  by  the  time  we 
reached  Boulogne  we  were  almost  like  old  friends. 

My  newly  - found  acquaintance  was  a Captain 
Hargreaves,  and  when  we  separated  at  our  arrival 
at  Charing  Cross,  he  had  given  me  his  card  and  a 
cordial  invitation  to  go  and  spend  a few  days  with 
him  at  his  place  at  Bishopstoke  near  Southampton  ; 
he  had  also  promised  to  come  and  see  my  studio. 

It  is  often  remarkable  how  chance  meetings  such 
as  this  lead  to  lasting  friendships,  and  so  it  was  in 
this  case. 

Captain  Hargreaves  was  quite  a character  in  his 
way,  and  his  place,  “The  Mount,”  was  a charming 
sort  of  Liberty  Hall,  as  he  called  it,  where  one 
received  a most  hearty  welcome.  He  had  been  a 
great  whip  in  his  time,  and  I believe  was  said  to  be 
the  only  man  who  had  ever  driven  a four-in-hand 
at  full  trot  down  the  High  Street  of  Southampton 
and  into  the  courtyard  of  the  “ Dolphin  Hotel,”  with- 
out having  to  draw  rein — somewhat  a daring  feat. 

i io 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


When  I met  him,  however,  his  heart  had  gone  wrong, 
so  he  had  had  to  give  up  such  mad  pranks.  Fishing 
and  yachting  were  then  his  sole  amusements,  and 
there  were  several  miles  of  good  trout  fishing  on 
a stream  which  ran  through  his  estate.  I remember 
that  at  intervals  along  the  bank  there  were  seats 
with  lockers  to  them  in  which  were  to  be  found 
refreshments  for  his  guests  at  all  times  — a very 
thoughtful  and  hospitable  notion  indeed. 

His  yacht,  The  Ianira , was  a very  fine  schooner 
of  about  375  tons,  with  auxiliary  speed,  and  perhaps 
one  of  the  best  of  its  class  in  those  days.  As 
Hargreaves  was  a captain  in  the  Naval  Reserve, 
all  the  crew  were  in  uniform.  We  would  drive 
from  the  house  in  great  style  in  the  four-in-hand 
down  to  the  jetty,  and  be  taken  off  to  where  the 
yacht  lay  in  Southampton  water  in  a steam  pinnace, 
in  quite  man-o’-war  fashion. 

There  was  a large  billiard-room  and  picture  gallery 
built  on  to  the  house,  which  was  full  of  modern 
pictures  and  statuary.  One  evening  we  were  seated 
there  smoking,  when  Hargreaves  remarked  that  my 
large  picture  from  the  Paris  Salon  would  look  very 
well  on  the  end  wall,  and  if  I didn’t  want  the  earth 
for  it  he  would  buy  it.  Needless  to  say  it  ended  by 
its  being  sent  down,  and  I went  and  spent  a week- 
end to  superintend  the  hanging. 

Now  comes  a particularly  pleasing  souvenir  of  what 
was  otherwise  an  ordinary  deal.  He  was  delighted 
with  the  effect  of  the  picture,  and  after  dinner  that 
evening  wrote  me  out  a cheque  for  half  as  much 
again  as  he  had  agreed  to  give  for  it,  saying  that 
he  felt  it  was  really  worth  it.  I imagine  there 
are  not  many  artists  who  have  had  a similar 
experience. 

It  was  about  this  time  several  of  us  developed 
tendencies  of  martial  taste.  I may  possibly  have  had 
something  to  do  with  this,  for,  as  I have  said,  I 
always  had  a decided  leaning  towards  “soldiering.” 

hi 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I fancy  it  must  have  been  the  band  and  the  uniform 
that  attracted  me.  However,  I induced  two  cousins 
of  mine,  and  a particular  chum,  an  old  fellow  student 
from  Paris,  to  join  the  “Artists’”  Volunteers,  then 
the  20th  Middlesex.  And  for  the  next  two  months 
we  were  all  as  keen  as  mustard  on  drilling,  in  order 
to  be  able  to  take  part  in  the  manoeuvres  at  Brighton 
— in  those  days  the  great  event  of  the  year  for  the 
Volunteer  Army. 

Sir  Frederick  Leighton  was  the  colonel  of  the 
regiment,  which  mustered  about  750,  and  was  con- 
sidered then,  as  it  is  still,  one  of  the  “class”  corps 
of  London,  that  is,  typical  corps  which  attract  a 
certain  class.  There  were  other  regiments  which 
shared  with  the  “ Artists  ” the  honour  of  being 
thus  distinguished.  The  London  Scottish,  The 
Queen’s  Westminster,  The  Inns  of  Court,  and  the 
Civil  Service,  and  as  all  five  wore  grey  uniforms 
and  were  always  grouped  together,  they  were  known 
as  The  South  London  Brigade.  There  was  a friendly 
form  of  rivalry  in  consequence,  which  helped  con- 
siderably to  keep  a healthy  esprit  de  corps. 

Although  known  as  the  “Artists,”  it  was  not 
absolutely  necessary  to  be  an  artist.  When  the 
corps  was  founded  membership  was  confined  to 
painters,  sculptors,  musicians,  and  so  forth,  and  for 
many  years  the  tradition  was  unbroken.  Though, 
of  course,  there  were  many  distinguished  young 
artists  in  the  ranks,  there  were  several  companies 
without  any  painters  at  all  in  them ; while,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  were  one  or  two  mainly  composed 
of  this  fraternity.  We  joined  one  of  these,  H 
Company,  commanded  by  D.  W.  Wynfield,  a painter 
of  some  repute  at  the  time. 

The  distinguishing  character  of  all  the  five  grey- 
uniformed  regiments  was,  I believe,  that  they  were 
not  what  was  known  as  “Working  Men’s”  corps. 
The  “ Artists  ” certainly  was  very  much  to  the 
contrary,  and  the  charm  of  it  was  that  every 

112 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


recruit  on  joining  knew  that  if  he  stuck  to  it,  and 
lived  long  enough,  he  had  the  chance  one  day  of 
commanding  the  regiment.  For  the  “ Artists  ” 
“ grow  ” their  officers,  as  it  is  quaintly  expressed. 

From  the  very  day  one  was  enrolled  you  realised 
that  slackness  was  taboo.  And  it  was  strange  to 
note  how  soon  one  got  to  like  the  work,  hard  and 
monotonous  though  it  was  at  first,  of  learning  the 
elements  of  drill  and  military  discipline.  I remember 
it  was  a positive  eye-opener  to  me  to  see  the  way 
my  brother  recruits  unfailingly  turned  up  of  an 
evening — wret  or  fine. 

Of  course,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  “ Artists  ” still 
exists,  for  the  corps  is  undoubtedly  a popular  one 
on  account  of  its  old  associations,  chiefly.  But  it 
can  never  again  be  the  same  as  it  was  in  the  days 
of  which  I am  writing,  for  the  whole  character  of 
the  regiment  is  changed. 

Although  it  is  still  known  as  the  “ Artists,”  there 
are  scarcely  any  artists  in  it  now,  and  I believe 
no  one  deplores  this  state  of  affairs  more  than 
Colonel  May  himself,  who  has  gradually  seen  this 
transformation  coming  about.  Whether  it  is  that 
the  young  painters  of  nowadays  have  not  that  sense 
of  patriotism  that  animated  their  predecessors,  or 
that  the  new  school  of  artists  that  has  sprung  up 
considers  it  infra  dig.  to  go  in  for  anything  of  so 
manly  a character  as  soldiering,  it  is  hard  to  tell. 
But  the  fact  remains,  the  “Artists’”  corps,  smart 
and  efficient  though  it  be,  is  only  “ Artists  ” in 
name  now. 

This  retrocession,  for  one  can  call  it  nothing  else, 
is  still  more  remarkable  when  one  recalls  only  a 
few  of  the  men  who  made  big  names  for  themselves, 
and  who  in  their  early  days  passed  through  the 
ranks.  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  Sir  Edward  Poynter, 
Sir  A.  E.  Waterlow,  George  Frederick  Ross,  Walter 
Severn,  Edwin  Long,  Thomas  Brock,  Val  Prinsep, 
Sir  Victor  Horsley,  Sir  J.  Forbes- Robertson,  Dr 

1 13  H 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Jameson  (the  late  Premier  of  the  Cape),  Sir  Edward 
Busk,  Sir  Joseph  Barnby,  Colonel  R.  W.  Edis  Colonel 
Walter  C.  Horsley — the  last  two  successively  com- 
manded the  regiment  after  Sir  Frederick  Leighton. 
These  names  will  be  sufficient  to  convey  some  idea 
of  the  men  who  helped  to  make  the  “ Artists  ” 
what  it  always  has  been  — one  of  the  crack 
regiments  within  the  Metropolis. 

When  I joined,  and  it  is  of  interest  to  mention 
that  the  present  colonel  of  the  regiment  was  a 
brother  recruit,  the  headquarters  were  at  Fitzroy 
Square,  and  we  were  drilled  in  the  grounds  of  the 
University  College  in  Gower  Street.  It  was  tedious 
and  uninteresting  work  at  the  beginning,  but  it  all 
had  to  be  gone  through,  for  until  you  were  passed 
by  the  sergeant  - major  you  could  not  go  and  get 
your  uniform. 

I shall  always  remember  the  first  outing  we  had 
with  the  regiment  We  only  managed  to  get  our 
uniforms  just  in  time ; in  fact,  we  were  down  at 
the  tailors’  on  the  Thursday  night  before  Good 
Friday.  At  the  last  moment  my  trousers  were 
not  ready,  so  they  lent  me  a pair,  which  were 
miles  too  large  for  me,  as  the  waistband  came  up 
under  my  arm-pits,  so  it  may  be  imagined  how  nice 
and  warm  and  comfortable  I felt,  what  with  my 
tight  tunic,  belt  and  pouch  and  haversack,  and 
overcoat  rolled  up  like  a horse  collar  across  my 
chest,  and  wearing  a helmet  for  the  first  time. 

But  it  was  all  so  delightful  and  novel,  and  when 
I “ fell  in  ” with  my  company  when  the  regiment 
mustered  and  the  band  struck  up  and  we  marched 
off,  I had  the  feeling  that  if  this  were  soldiering 
it  was  very  pleasant  indeed.  I often  remembered 
this  first  impression  in  after  years  when  I saw 
soldiering  in  real  earnest,  and  when  there  was  no 
music  to  liven  it  up. 

The  regiment,  when  the  Easter  manoeuvres  took 
place  near  Brighton,  would  send  the  baggage  on 

114 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


ahead  two  days  before  under  a baggage-guard  of 
half  a company,  and  then  entrain  as  far  as,  perhaps. 
Three  Bridges,  on  the  Good  Friday,  and  march 
the  rest  of  the  way  with  other  regiments,  and 
there  was  generally  a small  sham  fight  en  route. 
We  would  billet  at  a village  that  night,  and  it 
was  a delightful  experience  when  after  the  hard 
day’s  work  we  turned  in,  and  slept  in  sweet-smelling 
hay  and  straw  in  barns  and  outbuildings. 

On  the  Saturday  the  march  would  be  resumed 
with  more  sham  fighting,  until  Brighton  was  reached, 
when  all  the  various  regiments  would  march  into 
the  town  with  bands  playing  amidst  great  enthusiasm. 
That  night  we  were  quartered  in  some  public  build- 
ing. After  being  dismissed  to  quarters  and  having 
tea  and  a wash  and  brush  up,  we  would  invade 
the  front  and  the  pier  and  give  the  girls  a chance. 

In  those  days  one  could  have  a lot  of  fun  with 
the  girls  when  you  were  in  uniform,  and  we 
generally  ' managed  to  find  something  to  pair  off 
with. 

Talking  of  fun  with  the  girls  when  in  uniform 
reminds  me  of  a laughable  practical  joke  played  on 
me  at  one  of  these  Easter  outings.  It  seems  funny 
now,  but  it  didn’t  amuse  me  a tiny  bit  at  the  time, 
I recollect.  I picked  up  a jolly  nice  girl  on  the 
Saturday  evening  and  fixed  an  appointment  with 
her  for  the  Sunday  afternoon. 

It  was  rather  difficult  to  get  away  from  one’s 
pals,  as  there  seemed  to  be  some  unwritten  law 
that  we  should  stick  together  when  in  uniform 
either  on  or  off  duty.  I managed,  however,  to 
elude  the  crowd,  and  found  my  lady-love  waiting 
at  the  try  sting- place. 

I had  made  discreet  enquiries  beforehand  as  to  the 
best  way  to  get  to  the  most  picturesque  and  retired 
walk  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  learned  that  there 
was  one  that  was  known  locally  as  “ Lovers’  Lane  ” 
on  account  of  its  seclusion.  I therefore  suggested 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


our  wending  our  footsteps  thither,  and  to  my  delight 
she  consented,  so  we  thithered.  She  knew  the  way, 
it  appeared — but  she  told  me  she  had  only  been 
there  once  before  just  to  have  a look  at  the  place. 

Once  outside  the  town  and  away  from  prying 
eyes,  I let  myself  go  unreservedly,  and  with  forage 
cap  cocked  jauntily  over  my  right  ear,  and  with 
my  manly  arm  encircling  her  wasp-like  waist,  I 
felt  I was  indeed  acting  the  “Tommy”  to  the 
very  life — and  I believe  the  young  lady  really  liked 
it — so  we  must  have  made  a picturesque  and  loving 
couple  as  we  strolled  through  the  leafy  lane,  whilst 
stopping  at  intervals  for  mutual  regalement  in  the 
shape  of  unrestrained  caresses  of  the  most  amatory 
nature. 

At  length  we  reached  “ Lovers’  Lane,”  and  I found 
it  quite  came  up  to  its  reputation,  for  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  find  anything  more  adapted  to 
the  requirements  of  young  and  ardent  sylvan  lovers. 
A high  straggling  hedge  shut  it  in  completely 
from  vulgar  gaze,  whilst  overhead  the  trees  formed 
a natural  and  charming  bower,  which  effectually 
tempered  the  hot  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun. 

A mossy  bank  of  most  alluring  appearance  seemed 
to  invite  us  to  tarry  awhile.  My  lady  fair  was  not 
unwilling,  and  we  were  soon  lying  clasped  in  each 
other’s  arms  in  rapturous  bliss,  lost  to  the  world 
and  all  its  sordid  pursuits,  whilst  the  little  birds 
sang  in  their  sweetness  around  us.  The  next  few 
minutes  passed  by  unheeded  as  though  in  a dream. 

Suddenly  my  companion  gave  a little  startled 
exclamation  and  whispered  in  my  ear : “ Did  you 
hear  that  noise  ? What  is  it  ? ” I sat  up  and  listened 
intently,  then  my  attention  was  drawn  to  something 
quite  close  by.  I thought  at  first  it  must  be  a snake 
in  the  hedge — or  a big  rat. 

I watched  it  carefully,  fascinated,  as  it  were,  when 
it  gradually  dawned  upon  me  that  it  was  a pair  of 
human  eyes  peering  through  the  hedge  at  us,  and 

116 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


not  far  away  yet  another  pair,  and  yet  another,  and 
here  and  there  on  either  side  quite  a number  of 
glistening  eyes  and  laughing  mouths  and  gleaming 
white  teeth.  We  were  surrounded  by  lookers-on. 
At  that  moment  I caught  a glimpse  of  something 
of  a familiar  grey  hue  with  a row  of  buttons  on  it, 
and  in  an  instant  I realised  that  I had  been  stalked 
by  some  of  my  own  comrades,  and  that  there  had 
been  an  interested  group  of  spectators  of  the  whole 
of  the  tender  episode ! 

I was  of  course  furious,  but  thought  it  was 
best  not  to  let  them  know  I had  seen  them,  as  it 
would  have  upset  my  lady  - love  tremendously 
had  she  known  of  it,  so  I turned  to  her  and 
said  that  I thought  that  there  were  snakes  about, 
and  that  it  would  be  advisable  to  go  somewhere 
else. 

She  didn’t  want  much  telling,  so  up  we  scrambled 
and  walked  rapidly  away.  As  we  did  so  I heard  a 
suppressed  titter  of  merriment  from  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge,  and  what  sounded  like  a discreetly 
suppressed  cough.  Some  little  distance  on  my  com- 
panion said  suddenly  and  anxiously : “ I don’t  think 
that  was  really  a snake  we  heard,  do  you ? ” “I 
don’t  think  it  really  was,”  I replied  truthfully. 

However,  to  return  to  the  serious  side  of  our 
volunteer  duties  at  the  Easter  Reviews.  Sunday 
there  was  Church  Parade,  and  then  we  were  free 
for  the  day.  Monday,  Bank  Holiday,  we  were  out 
betimes,  for  it  was  a field  day  on  the  downs — with 
a big  march  past  to  finish  up  with. 

All  Brighton  used  to  turn  out  to  see  this,  and 
the  most  ludicrous  incidents  would  often  occur,  for 
we  always  had  a generous  supply  of  blank  cartridge 
and  took  the  most  daring  risks,  dashing  right  up 
and  blazing  away  at  the  enemy  at  close  quarters, 
the  crowds  of  men,  women,  and  children  looking 
on,  and  when  the  “cease  fire”  sounded  it  would 
be  like  a fair  all  round,  every  one  lying  on  the 

ii  7 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


grass  if  it  were  a fine  afternoon,  with  hawkers  selling 
fruit,  nuts,  ginger  beer,  and  what  not. 

It  was  indeed  a brave  scene.  Wanting  in  serious- 
ness though  it  may  have  been,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  it  appealed  tremendously  to  the  people,  and  it 
was  that  that  made  the  Volunteer  Movement,  and 
these  Reviews  in  particular,  so  popular  at  the  time, 
whether  they  took  place  at  Brighton,  or  Southsea, 
or  Portsmouth. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  inferred  that  it  was  all 
pomp  and  circumstance,  for  we  did  a good  deal  of 
hard  work  when  there  was  no  audience,  at  Aldershot 
in  the  summer,  on  Wimbledon  Common,  and  else- 
where. Leighton  made  an  ideal  colonel — in  fact,  he 
was  probably  more  strenuous  in  his  work  than 
many  a commander  of  regulars. 

If,  as  it  has  been  described,  genius  is  an  infinite 
capacity  for  taking  pains,  then  Leighton  was  indeed 
one,  for  in  everything  he  undertook  efficiency  was 
his  object,  as,  for  instance,  in  his  volunteer  work, 
and,  moreover,  he  expected  every  one  around  him 
to  be  as  fully  in  earnest. 

I remember  one  occasion  at  Wimbledon  towards 
the  end  of  an  extremely  tiring  afternoon,  he  had 
given  the  command  for  some  particularly  compli- 
cated battalion  manoeuvre  to  be  carried  out.  Some- 
how it  was  not  done  to  his  liking,  and  he  ordered 
it  to  be  repeated  ; this  was  done  again  and  again 
without  success,  then  Leighton,  who  had  been 
gradually  showing  signs  of  considerable  irritation 
at  what  he  probably  considered  the  want  of  in- 
telligence of  us  all,  called  a halt,  and  seating  him- 
self firmly  in  his  saddle,  facing  the  regiment,  he 
bawled  out:  “Well,  gentlemen,  Pm  in  no  hurry,  and 
I’m  going  to  have  this  done  properly  if  I stop 
out  here  all  night.” 

I don’t  know  whether  this  little  speech  had  any 
effect,  but  anyhow  we  did  not  stop  out  all  that 
night.  This  zeal  on  his  part,  so  far  from  being 

1 1 8 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


resented,  only  served  to  make  him  liked  still  more 
by  the  regiment,  and  it  is  safe  to  assert  there  was 
no  more  popular  colonel  of  volunteers  at  that  time 
than  Sir  Frederick  Leighton.  By  his  personality 
and  quite  remarkable  assiduity  he  gave  a brilliant 
example  of  what  thoroughness  and  zeal  can  effect, 
the  result  of  which  is  seen  in  the  corps  until  this 
day.  He  gave  up  the  actual  command  of  the 
regiment  to  become  the  Honorary  Colonel  soon  after 
he  had  been  elected  President  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  then  only  on  account  of  the  increasing  number 
of  other  duties  thrown  upon  him  in  consequence. 
He  was  succeeded  by  Colonel  R.  W.  Edis,  also  an 
officer  of  exceptional  aptitude  and  presence,  for  his 
commanding  figure  and  fine  physique  drew  attention 
everywhere.  Walter  Horsley,  the  artist,  succeeded 
him  and  maintained  the  great  success  and  the  old 
traditions  of  the  famous  corps,  but,  as  I have 
said,  painters  have  gradually  ceased  to  take  interest 
in  volunteering,  for  reasons  difficult  to  explain,  and 
the  corps  is  only  “ Artists  ” in  name  now. 


CHAPTER  XI 


“Show  Sunday” — Then  a great  event — Importance  of  exhibiting  at 
the  Royal  Academy — Not  a hall  mark  of  talent — Significance  of 
Show  Sunday — The  dealers’  visits — The  social  crowd — Critics — 
What  the  artist  has  to  put  up  with — Doubtful  praise — Success  in 
art  not  judged  by  financial  results — Show  Sunday  stories — I send 
in  my  large  picture — Sir  Frederick  Leighton’s  encouragement — 
I have  no  luck — Not  hung  “for  want  of  space” — My  dejection 
— Thoughts  of  enlisting — My  girl  pal  — A real  comforter — I 
gradually  recover — Picture  purchased  by  Walker  Art  Gallery — 
Katie’s  illness — Sad  ending. 


“ Show  Sunday,”  as  the  day  before  sending  in  one’s 
pictures  to  the  Royal  Academy  was  called,  was  one 
of  the  great  events  of  the  year  amongst  artists,  and 
every  one  who  had  anything  like  a studio,  who  was 
going  to  try  his  luck,  would  send  out  invitations  to 
his  friends  to  come  and  see  his  pictures  before  they 
went  in.  This  was  done  to  avoid  disappointment 
to  the  friends,  in  case  the  works  were  not  accepted, 
and  they  had  no  opportunity  of  seeing  them  out- 
side the  studio. 

St  John’s  Wood,  which  on  Sunday  afternoons 
usually  presented  an  air  of  unruffled  sanctimonious 
calm,  was  invaded  by  visitors  “going  the  round  of 
the  studios,”  as  it  was  called,  and  every  one  who 
happened  to  have  a friend  who  knew  a friend  who 
knew  an  artist  would  try  and  get  an  invitation  to 
one  or  other  of  the  studios. 

From  the  artist’s  point  of  view,  the  importance  at 
that  time  of  exhibiting  at  the  Royal  Academy  was 
incalculable,  for  it  was  the  principal  exhibition  of 
the  year,  the  mere  fact  of  having  one’s  name  in  the 

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catalogue  carried  weight  and  seemed  to  entitle  the 
artist  at  once  to  a certain  consideration  which  he 
did  not  receive  otherwise.  “ He  exhibits  at  the 
Royal  Academy”  was  the  highest  encomium  the 
ordinary  bourgeois  could  think  of  when  describing 
an  artist  friend.  In  fact,  at  one  time  it  was  thought 
in  certain  suburban  sets  that  a painter  was  entitled 
to  put  F.R.A.  after  his  name  if  he  had  ever 
exhibited  at  Burlington  House. 

How  many  lives,  which  might  have  been  otherwise 
profitably  employed  in  commerce  or  elsewhere,  have 
been  wasted  by  the  mere  chance  of  being  once 
hung  at  the  Royal  Academy,  for  it  is  needless  to 
insist  on  the  fact  that  the  catalogue  of  that  august 
institution  does  not  necessarily  convey  the  hall-mark 
of  talent. 

“Show  Sunday”  nowadays  has  lost  most  of  its 
significance  in  consequence  of  the  number  of  out- 
side societies  that  have  come  into  existence,  and 
the  reluctance  of  many  painters  to  run  the  risk  of 
not  being  “hung”  if  they  send  their  chief  works  to 
the  Royal  Academy.  But  at  the  time  of  which  I am 
writing  it  was  almost  a social  function,  and  the  big 
men  especially  had  to  be  prepared  for  numbers  of 
visitors,  most  of  whom  were  complete  strangers  to 
them.  Carriages  and  cabs  and  streams  of  well- 
dressed  people  woke  up  the  echoes  of  quiet 
streets  where  not  a soul  would  be  seen  on  Sunday 
at  other  times  of  the  year,  and  gave  an  importance  to 
certain  artists  of  those  days  which  in  many  instances 
was  not  merited  by  the  works  they  exhibited.  Still 
all  this  movement  and  popular  interest  was  a healthy 
sign,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  “ Show  Sunday  ” 
was,  perhaps,  the  one  day  of  the  year  when  one 
could  almost  be  sure  of  receiving  a visit  from  one 
of  the  big  dealers  if  you  had  something  important  to 
show  him,  for  the  reason  that  they  knew  they  were 
certain  to  find  their  man  at  home  all  day.  Dealers 
and  publishers  would  generally  endeavour  to  pay 

12 1 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


their  visits  before  the  arrival  of  the  social  crowd,  and 
I knew  many  an  artist  who  would  reckon  to  sell 
every  picture  he  had  on  show,  before  the  first  ring 
at  the  bell  after  lunch.  Those  were  indeed  the 
good  times  for  modern  artists.  Of  course,  it  was 
not  all  honey,  and  sometimes  it  happened  that 
a man  had  “ spread  ” himself  on  some  special 
subject  all  the  year,  only  to  be  told  by  the  dealer 
he  was  hoping  to  sell  it  to  that  it  was  not  what 
he  wanted  after  all ; for  the  dealers  were  purely 
commercial,  and  only  looked  on  the  material  side. 

I remember  Yeend  King  used  to  tell  a funny  story 
of  a buyer  coming  to  see  his  Academy  pictures  one 
day.  They  all  represented  Spring  and  Summer 
scenes  up  the  river.  He  just  glanced  at  them,  then 
walked  round  the  studio  three  times  and  turned  to 
go  out,  saying  to  King  as  he  did  so:  “ I’m  sorry  I 
can’t  do  a deal  with  you  this  time,  but  we  have  a 
growing  demand  for  autumn  tints,  so  these  are  no 
good  to  me.  Good  afternoon.” 

But  if  the  candid  criticisms  of  the  dealers  were 
hard  to  bear  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  they  repre- 
sented an  opinion  of  success  or  failure,  what  the 
poor  artist  had  to  put  up  with  from  amateur  critics 
who  came  on  the  pretext  of  a friendly  visit  was 
maddening  at  times.  Not  the  least  irritating  was 
often  the  ambiguous  character  of  the  praise  one 
received. 

A friend  told  me  of  a very  influential  person 
coming  on  one  of  his  “ Show  Sundays,”  when  he  had 
quite  an  important  picture  on  view.  As  he  left  he 
went  up  to  the  artist,  and  shaking  him  warmly  by 
the  hand,  said : “ I like  your  picture  very  much,  it 
is  so  different  from  the  work  you  usually  do.” 

As  a rule  enthusiasm  and  praise  were  the  order  of 
the  day,  for  Society  folk  are  indulgent,  and  it  costs 
so  little  to  say  nice  things,  never  mind  what  one 
thinks.  There  were,  however,  some  people  who 
didn’t  attempt  to  disguise  their  feelings ; one  man  in 

122 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


particular,  he  was  so  outspoken  that  he  was  quite 
a terror,  but  his  opinion  was  the  more  valued  in 
consequence.  On  one  occasion  he  had  been  invited 
particularly  to  go  and  see  some  pictures.  He 
arrived,  had  a glance  round,  then  said  tersely : 
“ What  a beastly  lot ! Good  afternoon,”  and  walked 
out. 

I think  it  will  be  conceded  that  the  artist’s  is  the 
only  one  of  the  professions  where  success  cannot  be 
measured  by  financial  result.  Many  of  the  cleverest 
painters  and  sculptors  I have  known  were  as  poor  as 
church  mice,  yet  they  had  made  names  for  them- 
selves, their  work  was  highly  spoken  of  in  the  Press, 
but  their  studios  were  full  of  unsold  pictures,  all  of 
which  had  attracted  much  notice  when  on  exhibition. 

In  other  professions,  as,  for  instance,  that  of  medi- 
cine or  the  law,  success  is  gauged  by  banking  accounts 
and  the  position  a man  can  afford  to  keep  up,  and 
what  his  will  is  proved  at,  at  his  death.  A poor 
doctor,  or  a poor  solicitor,  however  clever,  can  never 
be  considered  to  have  been  successful,  as  success 
in  their  case  is  always  paid  for  in  solid  coin  of  the 
realm. 

It  has  been  said  that  an  artist  may  not  make  a 
deal  of  money  out  of  painting  a picture,  but  the 
pleasure  he  derives  whilst  painting  it  is  compensa- 
tion far  beyond  gold.  This  may  be  so,  but  it 
doesn’t  pay  his  rent  or  relieve  him  of  all  the  petty 
worries  after  the  picture  is  painted. 

With  this  idea  continually  in  one’s  mind,  it  may  be 
imagined  with  what  anxiety  one  wanted  to  know  the 
result  of  months  of  hard  work  ; as  it  often  meant 
comparative  affluence  or  dans  la  puree — anglicised, 
“ stony-broke  ” for  some  time  to  come.  I always 
thought  that  this  explained  the  peculiar  condition  of 
Bohemianism  that  is  always  associated  with  Art, 
and  is  always  more  or  less  condoned. 

Amusing  stories  occur  to  me  in  connection  with 
“ Show  Sunday.”  One  in  particular  of  a landscape 

123 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


painter,  who  married  a very  vulgar,  jealous,  but  good- 
looking  woman.  He  never  dared  to  have  a “ Show 
Sunday”  in  consequence,  but  on  one  occasion  quite 
a lot  of  friends,  several  ladies  included,  turned  up 
during  the  afternoon.  His  wife  happened  to  be  out 
at  the  time,  but  the  visitors  were  still  in  the  studio 
when  she  returned.  In  she  walked  and  stood  with 
her  arms  akimbo,  as  though  transfixed  at  the  sight 
of  so  many  people  in  the  place.  Her  husband,  a 
mild  little  man,  was  about  to  introduce  her,  when 
she  rapped  out  in  her  coarse  voice : “ What’s  the 
meanin’  of  this?  What  are  all  these  devils  doin’ 
’ere  ? ” Needless  to  add  the  visitors  did  not  stay  on  ! 

A great  many  of  the  people  who  went  round  the 
studios  of  that  day  did  it  more  because  it  was  the 
thing  to  do  rather  than  from  any  particular  interest 
in  painting,  which  reminds  me  of  a remark  made  by 
a fashionable  beauty  to  her  attendant  cavalier,  as 
they  came  out  of  one  of  the  studios,  “ I like  water- 
colour drawings  better  than  oil  paintings.”  “ Why  ? ” 
was  the  natural  query.  “ Because  one  can  see  one- 
self so  nicely  in  the  glass ! ” 

Here’s  something  that  happened  to  me.  A man 
whose  opinion  I particularly  wanted  to  have  on  a 
picture  came  and  saw  it,  and  after  looking  at  it  for 
some  minutes  whilst  I stood  by  expectantly,  he 
turned  to  me  and  said  : “ That’s  the  best  frame,  Price, 
I’ve  ever  seen  in  your  studio.” 

“ Show  Sunday  ” was  from  3 till  6 o’clock,  but 
it  would  generally  last  till  dark.  In  some  studios 
they  gave  tea,  but  not  often,  too  many  uninvited 
guests  would  turn  up  with  one’s  own  friends  for  this 
to  be  possible.  As  a rule,  you  were  generally  glad 
when  you  saw  the  last  of  your  visitors,  as  it  would 
frequently  happen  that  some  useful  suggestion  in 
regard  to  an  alteration  had  been  made  to  you  during 
the  afternoon,  and  you  were  in  feverish  haste  to  carry 
it  out  before  the  van  came  in  the  morning  to  fetch 
the  picture  away. 


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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


The  studio  always  seemed  terribly  empty  for  the 
next  few  days  after  the  pictures  had  gone,  they  had 
almost  got  to  be  part  and  parcel  of  the  furniture, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  no  excuse  for  starting  on 
another  canvas  at  once,  so  one  would  often  have  a 
bit  of  a holiday  in  the  shape  of  a saunter  round  the 
neighbourhood,  smoking  one’s  pipe  and  looking  up 
one’s  friends,  which  was  rather  a fascinating  way  of 
passing  a fine  spring  morning,  when  St  John’s  Wood 
was  looking  its  very  best. 

One  was  full  of  hope  for  one’s  pictures  during  the 
first  week  of  sending  them  in,  for  you  had  had  so 
many  compliments  paid  you. 

Then  came  the  inevitable  reaction,  and  gradually 
you  worked  yourself  into  a state  of  nervous  tension 
waiting  for  the  result,  and  every  postman’s  knock 
sent  a thrill  through  you,  till  at  last  your  whole 
future  career  and  welfare  seemed  to  be  absolutely 
dependent  on  the  decision  of  the  Hanging  Committee 
at  the  Royal  Academy.  It  seems  very  puerile  when 
one  looks  back  on  it  all  through  the  mist  of  time. 

That  year  I was  having  my  first  shot  at  getting 
“hung,”  and  a very  big  and  ambitious  shot  too.  I 
had  sent  in  the  large  io-feet  canvas  I had  painted 
in  the  Scilly  Islands,  as  Leighton  had  come  up  to 
the  studio  to  see  it  and  had  given  me  encouragement 
for  risking  it,  by  expressing  the  opinion  that  “it 
stood  a chance.”  But  although  he  was  ipso  facto 
always  on  the  Hanging  Committee,  his  friendship 
for  one  was  not  of  much  avail,  the  President  only 
exercising  the  casting  vote  when  necessary. 

Well ! my  lucky  star  was  not  in  the  ascendant 
that  year  so  far  as  the  Academy  was  concerned,  for 
my  great  work  was  not  hung  “ for  want  of  space,” 
and  I felt  very  dejected  about  it,  and  thought  the 
world  was  coming  to  an  end  in  consequence.  I went 
and  saw  Leighton,  and  he  was  very  sympathetic, 
but  I fancy  he  was  surprised  that  I should  take  it 
so  much  to  heart,  for  I was  so  young  then!  He 

125 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


said  he  had  put  in  a good  word  for  it,  but  its  size 
was  against  it,  and  advised  me  to  try  it  again  the 
following  year,  since  it  had  not  been  actually  rejected. 
But  to  me  it  was  a distinction  without  a difference, 
and  I was  in  no  mood  to  think  of  resuming  painting 
yet  awhile,  and  so  depressed  was  I by  this  temporary 
set-back,  that  I brooded  over  it  to  such  an  extent 
that  I actually  had  serious  thought  of  throwing  up 
art  and  enlisting,  and  went  and  had  a chat  with  a 
recruiting  sergeant  with  a view  to  joining  a cavalry 
regiment. 

It  was  at  this  time  I first  realised  what  a comfort 
it  was  to  have  a girl  pal.  I was  somehow  on  a 
different  footing  with  the  petites  amies  I had  had 
when  living  in  Paris,  for  the  reason,  perhaps,  that  I 
was  not  then  working  for  my  living,  and  had  a little 
income  coming  in  regularly,  so  there  was  nothing  to 
worry  about.  Here  in  London  all  was  changed,  and 
it  was  a pretty  serious  matter  if  I could  not  make 
things  go  right  every  time ; at  least,  so  I thought, 
for  to  employ  an  Irishism,  everything  seemed  to 
appear  black  when  I was  in  one  of  my  blue  moods, 
and  this  is  where  the  female  element  came  in  as 
against  the  masculine.  Men  friends,  as  I have 
always  found,  must  generally  have  some  sort  of 
compensating  self  - satisfaction  for  their  sympathy 
and  help,  however  much  they  are  with  you  in 
your  trouble.  There  generally  crop  up  time-worn 
platitudes  which  often  help  to  undo  the  good  feel- 
ing. “If  you  had  only  taken  my  advice,”  they  will 
probably  ejaculate,  or,  “ I am  very  sorry  for  you,  old 
man,  but  I warned  you  what  would  happen,”  and  so 
forth.  Little  nothings,  perhaps,  but  the  fly  in  the 
ointment,  all  the  same. 

Curiously  enough,  in  Bohemia,  if  a woman  of  the 
right  sort  is  really  fond  of  a man,  there  is  none  of 
this  ; there  is  nothing  to  temper  her  sympathy  with 
him  when  trouble  comes.  Anyhow,  that  has  been 
my  experience,  as  doubtless  it  is  that  of  many  other 

126 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


men.  In  studio  life  one  realises  this  perhaps  more 
than  elsewhere,  for  in  spite  of  the  apparent  light- 
heartedness and  absence  of  family  cares,  the  bachelor 
artist  Bohemian  often  lives  a wretchedly  isolated  and 
solitary  existence.  Of  course,  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment may  have  a deal  to  do  with  this,  but  this  is 
no  fault  of  the  individual,  as  will  be  admitted. 

So  it  happened,  fortunately  for  me  as  it  turned 
out,  that  I had  a dear  little  girl  friend  at  the  time, 
and  she  proved  the  very  embodiment  of  all  that 
was  sweet  and  human  and  sensible,  when  I was  in 
the  depths  of  despair.  I have  often  thought  over 
those  days  when,  had  it  not  been  for  her,  I should 
have  probably  done  something  foolish ; and  with  it 
all,  her  affection  and  her  sympathy  were  absolutely 
disinterested,  for  she  knew  I was  not  in  affluent 
circumstances ; that  was  the  charm  of  it,  and  made 
me  appreciate  her  the  more. 

It  was  then  that  I first  realised  that  in  the  uncon- 
ventional life  of  Bohemia  one  can  find  attachments 
every  whit  as  sincere,  and  often  more  so,  from  what 
I have  seen  since,  than  those  which  are  made  binding 
by  the  law.  However,  enough  of  moralising. 

Katie  was  employed  in  one  of  the  big  shops,  so 
could  only  see  me  after  she  left  business.  We  would 
then,  perhaps,  if  it  was  a fine  evening,  stroll  up  to 
Hampstead  and  wander  about  the  Heath,  which  we 
had  all  to  ourselves  at  that  hour ; and  I could  be  as 
miserable  as  I liked,  for  I felt  she  was  heart  and  soul 
with  me,  and  if  I laughed  she  would  laugh,  and  if  I 
cried  she  would  cry  also,  so  we  thoroughly  enjoyed 
ourselves. 

Gradually,  as  may  be  imagined,  it  dawned  on  me 
that  my  life  was  not  ended  simply  because  this 
beastly  picture  had  not  been  hung,  and  I actually 
found  myself  after  a time  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  perhaps  it  was  all  for  the  best,  because  it  must 
have  been  a poor  work  after  all,  and  wouldn’t  have 
done  me  any  good  even  if  it  had  been  hung,  and  my 

127 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

little  friend  agreed  with  me  in  this,  as,  in  fact,  she 
would  have  done  in  anything  I might  have  advanced. 

And  it  came  about  that  one  morning  I woke  up 
with  the  feeling  that  the  clouds  had  lifted  and  that 
I had  to  pull  myself  together,  so  I went  down  to 
the  Illustrated  and  was  lucky  enough  to  catch 
Mr  Ingram  in.  He  seemed  pleased  to  see  me, 
and  I sold  him  a drawing,  and  as  I came  out  into 
the  Strand  things  seemed  to  me  to  look  different 
and  brighter.  Although  it  had  commenced  to  rain, 
and  I hadn’t  got  an  umbrella,  somehow  I didn’t  mind 
if  I did  get  wet,  and  I met  a friend  and  he  asked  me 
to  go  into  Short’s,  where  we  had  a couple  of  glasses 
of  port,  and — well ! that  was  the  last  of  my  attack 
of  the  blues. 

What  a jolly  evening  Katie  and  I spent  together ; 
I sent  her  a wire,  I remember,  and  we  went  to 
a little  Italian  restaurant  just  off  the  Edgware 
Road,  and  had  quite  a feast  on  the  strength  of 
my  good  luck  at  the  office. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  mention  here  that  the 
picture  which  had  caused  me  so  much  heartburning 
was  eventually  purchased  for  the  Walker  Art 
Gallery,  Liverpool,  where  it  now  hangs. 

I had  taken  the  studio  at  No.  io  on  a three  years’ 
agreement  and  my  time  was  nearly  up,  so  I started 
looking  around,  as  I wanted  something  more  con- 
venient in  the  way  of  accommodation,  when  Katie, 
who  had  been  out  of  sorts  for  some  time  and  not 
at  all  strong,  was  taken  ill  and  had  to  give  up 
business  and  go  home  to  her  people  in  Somersetshire. 
There  was  to  me  a certain  mystery  as  to  the  nature 
of  her  ailment,  so  when  she  came  to  see  me  to  say 
good-bye  the  morning  she  left,  I plied  her  with 
questions,  when  at  last  she  burst  into  tears  and  I 
elicited  the  truth.  The  doctor  had  told  her  that 
one  of  her  lungs  was  affected — her  father,  it  appeared, 
had  died  of  consumption — and  that  she  must  get 
away  at  once  from  the  crowded  workroom  and 

128 


PICTURE  WHICH  HAD  CAUSED  ME  SO  MUCH  HEARTBURNING  WAS  EVENTUALLY  PURCHASED  FOR 
THE  WALKER  ART  GALLERY,  LIVERPOOL.” 


' 

. 

. 

■ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


vitiated  atmosphere  and  go  to  live  in  the  open  air 
as  much  as  possible,  which  meant,  of  course,  she 
must  not  come  back  to  London  for  a long,  long  time. 
‘‘Very  hard  luck,  isn’t  it?”  she  added  plaintively. 
I need  scarcely  say  how  affected  I was.  The  sadness 
of  it  all  struck  me  as  being  too  terrible,  for  she  was 
so  young  and  so  full  of  the  joie  de  vivre , but  I did 
my  best  to  disguise  my  feelings  and  cheer  her  up. 
“If  every  one  believed  what  the  doctor  said,  we 
should  be  dead  long  ago,”  I told  her,  with  an  attempt 
at  hilarity  I little  felt.  It  was  “only  a slight  cold” 
on  her  chest  she  had  got,  and  a few  days  in  the 
country  would  no  doubt  put  her  right — “right  as 
rain,”  and  so  forth,  but  I’m  afraid  my  voice  belied 
my  words.  However,  she  tried  bravely  to  curb  her 
tears  and  said  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do 
exactly  what  the  doctor  said  she  had  to,  and  take 
all  the  nasty  medicine  he  ordered,  and  then  she 
would  get  well  very  quickly  and  come  back  to 
London,  and  we  should  be  ever  so  happy  together 
once  more.  Poor  little  Katie,  I never  saw  her  again. 

Her  sister  called  on  me  some  time  afterwards  and 
told  me  that  from  the  first  it  was  more  serious  than 
the  doctor  had  said,  how  she  had  wasted  away  and 
gradually  got  weaker  and  weaker  until  she  was  a 
mere  shadow  of  her  old  self,  and  then  the  end  came 
— mercifully,  no  doubt.  They  say  that  “those  that 
the  gods  love  die  young,”  but  this  is  but  poor  con- 
solation to  those  who  mourn  their  loss. 


129 


I 


V 


CHAPTER  XII 


My  first  campaign  for  the  Illustrated  London  News — The  Bechuana- 
land  expedition — Its  origin — I see  Mr  Ingram  and  offer  to  go  out 
for  the  News — He  agrees — First  impressions  as  an  accredited 
representative  of  a Paper — Interview  with  Colonel  the  Hon. 
Paul  Methuen — The  1st  Mounted  Rifles,  “Methuen’s  Horse” — 
The  recruiting  office — A bit  of  a set-back — Sir  Charles  Warren 
and  newspapers  correspondents — Suggestion  that  I join 
“Methuen’s” — In  dual  capacity  as  artist  and  soldier — Mr 
Ingram  agrees — I pass  medical  examination — Sign  on  as  trooper 
— Serious  reflections — Enthusiasm  prevails — getting  ready  to  leave 
England  for  a year — The  departure  of  the  Pembroke  Castle  for 
South  Africa — Composition  of  the  regiment  and  pay  of  troopers. 

I HAVE  always  been  a firm  believer  in  the  truth  of 
the  old  French  adage  Tout  vient  a point  d qui  sait 
attendre , and  in  remarkably  few  instances  have  I 
found  my  confidence  in  it  shaken. 

My  perseverance  in  going  down  so  often  to  the 
Illustrated  Londo?i  News  office  on  the  off-chance  of 
a travelling  commission  coming  my  way  was  at  last 
to  be  rewarded,  and  at  the  end  of  the  following  year 
I left  London  for  South  Africa  on  my  first  expedition 
for  the  paper  as  War- Artist  Correspondent  with  the 
Bechuanaland  Field  Force,  and  trooper  in  the  1st 
Mounted  Rifles,  otherwise  known  as  “ Methuen’s 
Horse.”  The  combination  of  War  Correspondent 
and  trooper  was  so  uncommon,  and  the  whole  of 
the  circumstances  leading  up  to  it  so  unusual,  that 
I feel  it  may  be  perhaps  of  interest  to  give  a short 
account  of  how  it  came  about.  Trouble  had  been 
brewing  for  some  months  in  South  Africa,  a con- 
siderable body  of  Boer  freebooters  had  entered  the 
Bechuanaland  Protectorate,  forcibly  annexed  a large 

130 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


tract  of  territory,  murdered  the  British  representative, 
and  actually  proclaimed  two  new  Boer  states  which 
they  had  named  Stellaland  and  Goshen.  Such  a 
flagrant  defiance  of  the  Convention  could  not  be 
tolerated,  so  it  was  decided  to  drive  them  out  by 
force — hence  the  Bechuanaland  Expedition,  which 
was  under  the  command  of  Sir  Charles  Warren. 

Now  was  my  opportunity.  Melton  Prior  was  in 
the  Sudan,  not  expected  back  for  a long  while,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  at  hand,  so  down  I went  to  the 
office  and  offered  to  go  out  with  the  expedition  if 
they  would  commission  me.  Mr  Ingram  liked  the 
idea,  and  told  me  to  go  and  find  out  all  about  it  and 
let  him  know  what  arrangements  could  be  made.  I 
remember  I left  the  office  in  such  a state  of  elation 
that  I felt  as  if  walking  on  air. 

One  must  have  represented  a Paper  to  realise 
the  feeling  of  importance  one’s  first  big  travelling 
commission  conveys.  As  a matter  of  fact,  I don’t 
think  one  ever  loses  this  impression.  It  is,  I suppose, 
in  a meaure  a sense  of  gratification  at  the  confidence 
one  feels  is  reposed  in  one. 

I walked  along  the  Strand  pondering  what  was 
the  next  step  to  take.  Mr  Ingram  had  made  no 
suggestions,  assuming,  presumably,  that  a man 
offering  his  services  as  War  Correspondent  did  not 
require  his  editor  to  tell  him  what  to  do.  I realised 
at  once  that  one  was  entirely  dependent  upon  one’s 
own  initiative  when  acting  as  the  representative  of 
a newspaper.  I was  cogitating  whether  the  proper 
course  was  to  present  myself  at  the  War  Office  and 
make  enquiries,  when  an  idea  suddenly  flashed  in 
my  mind. 

It  had  been  announced  that  in  addition  to  the  troops 
to  be  used,  there  was  to  be  a strong  force  of  mounted 
infantry,  and  an  irregular  cavalry  regiment  was  to 
be  raised  in  England  for  service  in  South  Africa.  A 
call  had  been  made  for  volunteers  who  were  good 
riders  and  good  shots.  The  regiment  was  to  be 

131 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


under  the  command  of  Colonel  The  Hon.  Paul 
Methuen.  I recollected  that  there  had  been  a notice 
in  the  Daily  Telegraph  that  morning,  in  which  it  gave 
particulars  where  to  apply  for  all  information.  So 
to  buy  the  paper  and  then  to  make  my  way  to 
50  Leicester  Square,  where  was  the  Recruiting  Office, 
did  not  take  long. 

I remember  that  it  was  with  a certain  amount  of 
perhaps  pardonable  self-confidence  I made  my  way 
upstairs  through  the  crowd  of  men  waiting  to  present 
themselves,  and  sent  in  my  name  to  Captain  Harell, 
who  was  the  recruiting  officer. 

It  was  the  first  time  I had  authority  to  state  that 
I represented  the  Illustrated  London  News , and  I 
then  at  once  realised  what  an  “ open  sesame  ” this 
meant,  for  I was  ushered  in  immediately,  and  on 
explaining  my  business,  the  Captain  said  he  would 
take  me  in  to  Colonel  Methuen,  who  alone  could  deal 
with  the  matter.  I was  taken  in  to  an  inner  room, 
where  the  Hon.  Paul  Methuen  received  me  with 
much  cordiality,  but  on  explaining  the  object  of  my 
call,  he  informed  me  without  hesitation  that  he  much 
regretted  he  could  do  nothing  for  me. 

It  appeared  that  Sir  Charles  Warren  had  given  it 
distinctly  to  be  understood  before  he  left  England 
that  he  would  have  no  “ travelling  gentlemen,”  as  he 
humorously  termed  War  Correspondents,  with  him 
on  this  expedition. 

In  vain  did  I urge  that  an  artist  could  scarcely 
come  under  this  category,  the  colonel  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  replied  : “ Those  are  my  instructions, 
and  I must  carry  them  out.” 

I was  naturally  very  disappointed,  and  I must  have 
shown  it ; however,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  give 
up  the  idea  of  going,  and  I was  leaving  the  room, 
when  Colonel  Methuen  stopped  me,  and  asked 
somewhat  abruptly,  as  though  an  idea  had  occurred 
to  him  : “ Are  you  in  the  volunteers  ? ” I told  him 
I was  a corporal  in  the  “ Artists’  ” Corps.  “ Are  you 

132 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


a good  rider?”  “Yes,”  I replied,  wondering  what 
on  earth  he  was  driving  at.  “ A good  shot  with  the 
rifle?”  “Fairly,”  I answered,  still  more  perplexed. 
“Well,  then,”  he  continued,  “ the  best  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  join  my  regiment  and  come  out  with  me  as  a 
trooper,  and  I will  use  my  influence  so  that  you  will 
be  able  to  go  about,  see,  and  sketch  everything,  and 
at  the  same  time  you  will  no  doubt  find  your  military 
experiences  extremely  interesting.  Besides  which,” 
he  added,  with  a laugh,  and  as  an  extra  inducement, 
“ you  will  get  a medal  when  it  is  all  over — if  you  are 
not  killed.  ” 

The  suggestion  was  a tempting  one  to  me,  but  it 
was  so  unexpected  that  I naturally  hesitated  ; more- 
over, it  quite  altered  my  programme,  so  I replied 
that  I thought  I had  better  go  and  see  Mr  Ingram 
and  ask  what  he  thought  of  it  first.  “Well,  you’ll 
have  to  decide  quickly,  because  we’re  nearly  full  up,” 
he  told  me.  I said  I would  be  back  during  the 
afternoon,  and  hurried  off. 

I felt  I must  have  a few  minutes  to  myself 
quietly  to  think  it  over,  so  went  into  the  Square,  lit 
my  pipe,  and  had  a walk  round  and  turned  it  over 
carefully  in  my  mind.  Whilst  thus  cogitating,  I 
recollected  how  one  of  my  old  schoolfellows,  Walter 
Sullivan,  had  enlisted  in  South  Africa  under  some- 
what similar  circumstances,  and  had  gone  through 
a recent  campaign,  and  how  this  had  fired  my 
imagination  at  the  time. 

Now  was  my  opportunity,  and  before  I had  smoked 
my  pipe  out,  I had  come  to  the  conclusion  to  try  and 
take  advantage  of  it.  Moreover,  my  time  was  up  at 
the  studio  and  I had  absolutely  not  a tie  in  the  world. 
No  one  could  have  been  freer  than  I was  just  then, 
so  I decided,  therefore,  to  join  if  Mr  Ingram  approved 
of  it. 

Without  further  hesitation  I jumped  into  a cab  and 
was  fortunate  in  catching  him  still  at  the  office. 
Although  somewhat  surprised,  he  thought  Colonel 

133 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Methuen’s  suggestion  a capital  one,  and  in  a few 
moments  it  was  all  settled  that  I should  go,  and  I 
received  my  credentials  signed  by  him.  Within  an 
hour  I was  back  again  in  Leicester  Square,  passed 
by  the  doctor,  entered  as  a trooper  in  “ D Troop”  of 
“ Methuen’s  Horse  ” for  one  year  certain,  and  informed 
that  I was  in  the  first  detachment  that  was  leaving 
in  the  Pembroke  Castle  ten  days  later.  Nothing 
could  have  been  quicker.  I had  scarcely  had 
breathing  time,  yet  all  this  had  happened  since  I left 
home  in  the  morning. 

As  I made  my  way  back  to  St  John’s  Wood  it 
gradually  dawned  on  me  the  seriousness  of  the  step 
I had  taken.  What  would  my  people  say  to  it? 
Probably  they  would  call  me  an  arrant  fool,  but  that 
did  not  trouble  me,  for  I was  a free  agent.  I felt 
there  was  no  going  back,  anyhow.  The  die  was  cast, 
and  I was  no  longer  my  own  master,  but  a soldier, 
and  at  the  call  of  my  commanding  officer. 

It  was  indeed  a strange  transformation,  and  I must 
admit  that  for  a short  time  I felt  a pang  of  regret  at 
my  impetuosity.  The  thought,  I remember,  flashed 
through  my  mind  that  I was  giving  up  painting,  and 
that  all  the  pleasant  times  of  my  studio  life  and  so 
forth  were  at  an  end  for  many  months — perhaps  for 
ever — for  I might  get  bowled  over  and  never  come 
back.  My  heart  beat  wildly  for  a moment  at  the 
thought.  But  I was  young  and  enthusiastic,  the 
love  of  adventure,  so  characteristic  a trait  of  my  tem- 
perament, asserted  itself,  and  I soon  recovered  my 
equanimity,  for  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  only  ten 
days  to  make  all  my  preparations  for  leaving 
England,  giving  up  my  studio,  storing  my  furniture, 
etc.,  getting  my  kit  together,  and  the  hundred  and 
one  things  that  my  long  absence  would  necessitate. 

The  next  week  was  spent  in  feverish  preparation, 
and  I was  at  length  glad  when  the  time  approached 
for  my  departure.  The  excitement  of  it  all  was  so 
wearying. 


134 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


At  last  the  eventful  day  arrived,  and  on  a 
typically  gloomy  November  day  I left  for  South 
Africa  with  the  first  detachment  of  the  “ ist 
Mounted  Rifles.” 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  add  that  of  the  unique 
regiment  raised  by  Colonel  Methuen  for  the  Expedi- 
tion, two  hundred  were  gentlemen  volunteers  who 
had  served  in  the  Militia,  and  who  had  competed 
for,  and  failed  to  obtain,  commissions  in  the  regular 
Army.  Another  three  hundred  were  selected  from 
the  Volunteer  Force,  and  from  gentlemen  who  had 
unsuccessfully  competed  for  admission  to  the  Military 
College,  Sandhurst,  and  about  one  hundred  men  of 
the  Army  Reserve.  The  pay  for  troopers  was  4s. 
per  day,  with  is.  deferred  pay— the  horses  and 
accoutrements  being  found  by  the  Government. 

My  experiences  whilst  serving  as  a trooper  in 
Bechuanaland,  interesting  as  they  were,  can  scarcely 
be  considered  as  coming  within  the  scope  of  a 
narrative  of  “ One’s  Bohemian  Days  in  London,”  so 
the  year  I was  away  must  therefore  form  a hiatus 
in  my  life  of  that  time.  Suffice  it  to  add  that  I was 
fortunate  in  going  through  the  campaign  without 
any  serious  mishap,  and  returned  to  England  the 
following  year  all  the  better  physically  for  my 
strenuous  life  out  on  the  veldt. 


135 


CHAPTER  XIII 


I return  to  England  from  South  Africa — The  call  of  the  wild — 
Finding  a new  studio— 3 Blenheim  Place — My  cousin  Harris — 
A sporting  arrangement — Alone  once  more — The  female  element 
again — A pleasant  adventure — My  new  friend — I restart  painting 
— The  demure  Gaiety  girl  and  the  diaphanous  drapery — Painting 
from  the  nude — Bad  times — Living  on  the  cheap — Sententious 
platitudes — The  artists’  money-lender — Cycling  in  those  days — 
The  Army  Cycling  Corps — Our  tricycle — Cycling  Club  costume — 
The  “ Spider,”  the  “ Kangaroo” — Ludicrous  adventure — The  new 
dollar  piece — Cycling  in  France — Le  Portel — The  “ Grosvenor  ” 
and  Sir  Coutts  Lindsay — “Varnishing  Day  ” at  the  Royal  Academy 
— The  “Private  View” — London  Hosts  and  Hostesses — Lady 
Seton — Social  life — Card  parties — Funny  experience — Result  of 
a foraging  expedition — “When  the  moon,”  etc.,  curious  sequel 
to  the  sale  of  a picture — Keeley  Halswelle  and  the  Sketching 
Club. 

I FELT  very  much  like  a fish  out  of  water  for  some 
time  after  my  return  to  England,  and  I was  almost 
wondering  if  I should  ever  be  able  to  settle  down 
again  to  the  quiet  humdrum  I had  been  leading 
before  I went  away. 

When  one  has  got  accustomed  to  the  free-and-easy 
camp  life  of  the  veldt,  and  the  days  spent  in  the 
saddle,  with  no  cares  or  worries  to  trouble  one,  it 
may  be  imagined  how  difficult  it  is  to  return  to  the 
cramped  quarters  of  a London  studio. 

Although  I had  often  been  longing  when  out  in 
South  Africa  for  the  day  to  come  when  I should 
find  myself  back  in  London,  the  recollection  of  the 
adventurous  existence  I had  been  living  for  the  past 
year  kept  continually  recurring  to  my  memory,  and 
at  times  I found  myself  wishing  it  would  all  come 
over  again.  Those  dreary  wastes,  which  had  so 

136 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


depressed  one  when  wearily  trekking  across  them, 
would  now  appear  to  my  mind’s  eye,  as  I recalled 
them,  as  a sort  of  boundless  parkland,  and  I would 
have  given  anything  to  be  across  a horse  again 
galloping  towards  the  distant  horizon  of  blue  hills. 

The  call  of  the  wild  had  got  hold  of  me,  and  has 
held  me  ever  since.  Settle  down  as  I may,  I still 
feel  that  indescribable  yearning  at  times  for  the 
solitude  of  the  plains. 

St  John’s  Wood  seemed  strangely  small  now,  and 
every  one  I met  appeared  to  me  as  though  suffering 
from  lack  of  fresh  air,  and  I almost  felt  sorry  for 
them  having  had  to  stay  at  home,  as  it  were,  midst 
bricks  and  mortar,  whilst  I had  been  seeing  the 
world.  However,  my  wanderings  were  over  for  the 
time,  so  it  now  meant  my  finding  a new  studio.  I 
wished  to  remain  in  the  old  neighbourhood,  as  I had 
got  accustomed  to  it,  and  had  many  friends  round 
about. 

After  only  a few  days’  search,  I came  across  a 
place  that  suited  me  admirably  at  No.  3 Blenheim 
Place,  quite  close,  therefore,  to  my  old  one.  It  was 
part  of  a double  house,  immediately  facing  the  “ Eyre 
Arms,”  with  an  entrance  to  itself,  two  rooms  on 
the  street  level,  and  a large  room  on  the  first  floor, 
which  the  landlord  agreed  to  convert  into  a studio 
by  putting  in  a large  top  light.  The  house  itself 
was  also  “To  Let,”  and  a cousin  of  mine  “Leily” 
Harris,  a very  jolly  fellow,  with  whom  I was  on  a 
footing  of  the  greatest  friendship,  decided  to  take 
it,  so  we  started,  as  it  were,  en  manage  together. 
The  house,  I may  mention,  communicated  with 
the  studio  through  the  back  garden,  which  was 
of  quite  appreciable  dimensions.  This  garden  gave 
a sort  of  comparative  isolation  to  us  both,  which 
was  very  useful,  seeing  we  were  bachelors.  We 
therefore  never  attempted  to  intrude  on  each  other’s 
privacy.  If  the  back  doors  were  closed  it  was 
understood  we  were  “ engaged.”  This  sporting 

137 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


arrangement  answered  admirably,  for  “Leily”  was 
“one  of  the  best,”  and  during  the  several  years 
we  lived  together  there  was  never  a hitch  or  a wry 
word  of  any  sort  between  us. 

It  was  with  a peculiar  sort  of  feeling  of  com- 
mencing all  over  again  that  I arranged  my  furniture 
in  the  studio,  and  unpacked  my  belongings.  So 
much  had  happened  to  me  since  I had  last  seen 
them  all  a year  ago,  that  it  seemed  almost  strange 
to  sit  in  front  of  a canvas  and  make  a start  at  a 
picture,  whilst  particularly  there  was  a sense  of 
freedom  which  was  almost  impressive  after  my  year 
of  military  subordination. 

Although  I had  made  no  fortune  by  my  work  in 
South  Africa,  I had  come  back  with  sufficient  money 
to  enable  me  if  I so  wished  to  devote  all  my  time 
during  the  next  few  months  to  painting  only. 
I had  been  looking  forward  to  this  moment  with  a 
joyous  expectancy  which  the  long  period  of  “ rough- 
ing it”  had  accentuated. 

I recall  how  particularly  delightful  it  was  to  be 
alone  once  more  in  a place  of  my  own,  for  what  had 
been  to  me  the  most  trying  part  of  my  soldier  life 
was  the  entire  absence  at  any  time  of  privacy,  the 
constant  and  unavoidable  association  with  com- 
panions who  were  not  invariably  congenial.  Though 
one  made  good  and  lasting  chums  amongst  one’s 
comrades,  there  were  many  unpleasant  characters 
you  would  have  gladly  got  away  from,  could  it  have 
been  managed.  It  was  this  promiscuous  association 
rather  than  the  actual  soldiering  that  made  one  so 
glad  to  get  away  from  it.  Apart,  however,  from  this 
feeling  of  liberty  that  I now  enjoyed,  there  was  the 
knowledge  that  the  female  element  would  once  more 
become  an  integrant  part  of  one’s  life,  for  whilst  it 
is  common  knowledge  that  Venus  and  Mars  have 
often  united,  such  a combination  is  hardly  possible 
when  on  “ active  service.”  Therefore  for  the  past 
twelve  months  practically  I had  been  willy-nilly 

138 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


living  the  life  of  an  ascetic,  which,  as  a Bohemian  of 
the  Paris  school,  I feel  constrained  to  confess  is  not 
at  all  in  my  line. 

Somewhat  curiously  I had  a very  pleasant  adventure 
on  the  very  night  of  my  return  to  England.  I had 
put  up  at  lodgings  I already  knew  of  in  St  Ann’s 
Terrace,  and  she  happened  to  live  within  a few  yards 
of  me.  I cannot  quite  exactly  remember  how  we 
became  acquainted  ; but  if  I remember  rightly  she 
was  going  to  post  a letter.  I was  finishing  a pipe 
before  going  into  bed.  It  was  one  of  those  rencontres 
dn  hasard  which  frequently,  and  strangely  enough, 
lead  to  lasting  friendship,  and  so  it  turned  out  in 
this  instance.  One  would  scarcely  have  expected  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  a charming  woman  in  a 
St  John’s  Wood  street  at  11.30  at  night.  One 
would  be  apt  to  be  somewhat  sceptical  when  she  told 
you  she  was  not  what  you  took  her  for,  especially 
when  the  acquaintanceship  was  made  in  so  un- 
orthodox a manner.  But  I was  in  a particularly 
happy  state  of  mind  at  the  time,  and  when  she 
told  me  she  was  a governess  with  a family  in  the 
neighbourhood,  instead  of  smiling  to  myself  at  the 
old,  old  story  as  I should  probably  have  thought  it 
otherwise,  I believed  her  at  once,  and  not  only  did 
it  turn  out  to  be  quite  true,  but  we  eventually  became 
the  closest  of  friends,  and  she  sat  to  me  quite  a 
number  of  times.  I may  here  mention  a curious  and 
interesting  fact  that  some  of  my  most  successful 
and  popular  pictures  were  painted  from  “friends” 
I had  met  under  similarly  casual  circumstances. 

The  fact  of  my  only  having  just  got  back  from  a 
long  campaign  seemed  to  interest  her,  and  we  strolled 
round  the  quiet  neighbourhood  until  long  after  the 
hour  when  respectable  folk  are  supposed  to  be  in 
bed.  There  was  a fascination  to  me  in  being  once 
more  with  a delightful  woman  after  months  of  rough 
camp  life,  that  made  me  feel  still  more  elated  at 
having  got  through  my  twelve  months’  experience 

139 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


of  soldiering  safely  and  being  back  again,  free  to 
continue  my  own  bent  once  more. 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  eagerness  I was 
looking  forward  to  an  early  renewal  of  the  pleasant 
times  my  studio  life  had  hitherto  procured  me.  It 
took  some  few  days  after  I had  moved  in  to  get  into 
the  way  of  the  place  and  to  make  it  ship-shape ; and 
when  I had  done  this,  I felt  that  this  was  the  most 
delightfully  convenient  place  I had  had  so  far,  and 
as  will  be  seen,  it  turned  out  to  be  the  luckiest  place 
also.  It  may  perhaps  appear  strange  that  after  a 
year’s  campaigning  when  sketching  only  military 
subjects,  I should  on  my  return  to  painting  at  once 
revert  to  myold  loves — shipping  and  the  sea.  But  such 
was  the  case,  and  as  soon  as  my  studio  was  ready 
I made  a start  on  an  idea  I had  had  in  my  mind 
before  I went  away.  It  represented  the  deck  of  one 
of  the  old  Woolwich  steamers,  and  was,  of  course,  a 
composition  with  many  figures.  My  newly  - found 
friend,  who  was  really  very  good-looking,  managed 
to  come  and  sit  for  me  at  times,  and  evinced  an 
intelligent  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  picture 
that  conduced  not  a little  to  its  ultimate  success. 

I went  several  times  down  the  river  in  order  to 
get  the  local  colouring  and  grouping  accurately ; 
whilst  for  my  models,  I trusted  to  chance  to  find 
them,  since  it  was  necessary  to  have  distinct  types 
in  a picture  of  this  description.  The  average  model 
is  too  self-conscious  and  professional,  I therefore  got 
any  one  I happened  to  come  across  to  sit  for  me, 
if  they  would.  One  day,  for  instance,  it  was  a 
lifeguardsman,  on  another  occasion  there  was  a 
labouring  man  with  his  tool  bag,  then  an  old  work- 
house  man  I saw  passing  the  studio  one  Sunday 
morning.  I remember  him  in  particular,  because  he 
was  quite  a curiosity  in  his  way.  He  couldn’t  make 
out  what  I wanted  with  him  at  first ; when  he  realised 
that  I meant  him  no  harm  he  became  as  talkative 
as  a child,  and  was  willing  to  come  and  sit  for  me 

140 


TUB  DECK  OF  ONE  OF  THE  OLD  WOOLWICH  STEAMERS 


. 


. 


“then  an  old  workhouse  man.” 


I GOT  A FLOWER  GIRL  TO  COME  TO  THE  STUDIO 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

every  day  of  the  year  had  I wanted  him.  These 
sittings  were  red-letter  days  for  him  evidently.  Then 
I got  a flower  girl  to  come  to  the  studio.  In  fact  this 
picture  provided  a good  excuse  for  having  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  everyday  folk  to  sit  for  me,  and 
making  character  studies  which  were  extremely  inter- 
esting. I eventually  exhibited  this  picture  at  the 
Paris  Salon , and  it  was  sent  afterwards  to  Australia, 
where  it  was  bought  by  one  of  the  Art  Galleries. 

In  a comparatively  short  time,  therefore,  I quite 
dropped  back  into  my  old  groove  and  found  plenty 
of  work  to  keep  me  busy,  and  although  it  was  not 
highly  remunerative,  I managed  somehow  to  make 
a living  by  it. 

It  was,  however,  often  highly  entertaining  as  well 
as  interesting  to  be  able  to  paint  exactly  what  you 
felt  inclined  to,  and  there  was  a certain  compensa- 
tion even  if  it  didn’t  bring  in  a lot  of  money.  I 
remember  one  little  instance,  which  is,  perhaps, 
worth  relating  in  this  connection.  I had  been  look- 
ing out  for  a type  of  face  I had  in  my  mind  for  a 
subject,  and  I was  introduced  to  a very  pretty  girl, 
who  was,  at  the  time,  at  the  “ Gaiety,”  and  who  not 
only  had  the  face  I wanted  but  apparently  the  figure 
also.  She  willingly  agreed  to  sit  for  me,  but  waxed 
most  indignant  when  she  saw  the  sketch  for  the 
picture,  as  the  subject  was  an  “altogether”  one, 
and  she  expressed  herself  very  emphatically  on  the 
indecency  of  any  girl  sitting  in  that  state. 

I somehow  had  an  idea  that  she  was  not  so  demure 
as  she  wished  me  to  think  ; but  I said  nothing  in 
reply  to  her  tirade,  as  I thought  there  was  a chance 
of  getting  her  to  alter  her  views,  and  so  it  turned  out. 
She  came  and  sat  for  me,  and  we  gradually  became 
friendly,  and  she  got  less  and  less  prudish,  or,  rather, 
more  and  more  natural,  till  one  afternoon  she  sug- 
gested to  me  of  her  own  accord  that  she  would  don 
a diaphanous  drapery,  if  it  would  help  me  at  all. 
Of  course  I fell  in  with  her  views,  and  the  next  time 

141 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


she  came  she  brought  some  soft  material  to  drape 
herself  in.  “ The  drapery,”  which  was  merely  a very 
thin  sort  of  chiffon,  was  difficult  to  keep  in  place  and 
kept  slipping  off,  until  at  last  there  was  really  no 
excuse  for  her  continuing  to  wear  it  at  all  as  there 
was  nothing  further  to  hide,  so  I painted  her  as  a 
nymph  after  all.  It  had  taken  her  about  a fortnight 
to  alter  her  views. 

Now  came  the  sequel,  which  was  quite  curious. 
Once  she  had  overcome  her  scruples  as  to  sitting 
for  the  nude,  she  actually  seemed  to  enjoy  being 
about  the  studio  in  puris  naturalibus , and  it  ended 
by  my  often  having  to  persuade  her  to  don  her 
attire  when  I had  finished  work.  She  even  went 
so  far,  one  day,  as  to  express  the  opinion  that 
“ clothes  were  a nuisance  ” ; and  I agreed  with  her 
that  they  were,  when  they  disguised  so  beautiful  a 
form  as  hers,  but  not  otherwise. 

Perhaps,  however,  not  the  least  amusing  part  of 
of  it  all  was  that  she  brought  several  girl  friends 
of  hers  from  the  theatre  to  see  the  picture  as  it 
progressed,  and  one  or  two  of  them  made  no  compli- 
ments about  offering  to  sit  for  me  also  for  a similar 
subject,  if  ever  I wanted  some  one  else  with  an  equally 
good  figure,  so  I could  have  had  as  many  amateur 
models  as  I wished  for  on  the  strength  of  it. 

Painting  from  the  nude,  however,  was  a luxury 
which  one  could  not  always  permit  oneself,  much 
as  one  would  have  liked  to  be  always  at  it.  One 
had  to  keep  the  main  chance  in  view  at  all  times, 
and  that  was  whether  the  picture  would  sell,  for 
buyers  of  such  subjects  are  few  and  far  between 
in  England. 

Outside  the  studio  one  managed  also  to  have 
amusements,  for  it  was  seldom  you  had  dull  times 
unless  you  happened  to  be  hard  up,  which  condi- 
tion of  affairs  happened  now  and  again,  for  one’s 
expenses  were  seldom  commensurate  with  one’s 
earnings. 


142 


By  permission  of  the  Photographic  Co., 
the  owners  of  the  Copyright 

SO  I PAINTED  HER  AS  A NYMPH  AFTER  ALL.” 


I 


ONCE  SHE  HAD  OVERCOME  HER  SCRUPLES.” 

From  the  original  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  M.  E.  de  Rossi. 


* 

, 

MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


In  looking  back  on  these  days,  I am  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  one  got  used  to  the  recurrence  of 
bad  times.  It  is  said  that  eels  get  used  to  being 
skinned  ; and,  I suppose,  artists  get  reconciled  to 
what  has  always  been  considered  inevitable  in  the 
most  precarious  of  the  professions. 

It  is  when  things  are  not  looking  bright  that 
Bohemianism  in  London  is  so  utterly  depressing, 
whereas  in  Paris,  when  one  is  dans  la  dfohe,  there 
are  many  little  places  where  one  can  live  cheaply 
and  without  loss  of  dignity.  In  this  vast  metro- 
polis, if  one  is  on  one’s  “uppers,”  as  it  used  to  be 
picturesquely  called,  there  are  no  haunts  corre- 
sponding with  what  one  could  find  in  the  Quartier 
Latin  or  Montmatre,  where  for  a few  sous  you  could 
get  an  ample  meal,  with  a merry  crowd  of  students 
as  hard  up  as  yourself,  to  keep  you  company.  There 
were  cheap  places  round  about  Lisson  Grove  and 
Edgware  Road ; but  the  mere  look  of  them  was 
sufficient  to  decide  one  that  a crust  of  bread  and  a 
piece  of  cheese  in  the  privacy  of  the  studio  was 
preferable  to  rubbing  shoulders  with  the  unwashed 
loafers  and  casual  labourers  who  frequented  them. 
Most  artists  probably  have  had  similar  experiences 
at  some  time  or  other,  for  I fancy  that  snobbishness 
is  not  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  the  profession. 

I have  often  heard  it  advanced  by  people  who 
love  to  air  sententious  platitudes  on  subjects  they 
know  little  about,  that  the  charm  of  art  as  against 
other  professions  is  that  an  artist  need  never  be 
hard  up,  he  can  always  occupy  himself  even  when 
he  has  no  work  on  order.  He  can  paint  pictures 
instead  of  sitting  idle.  That  is  so,  for,  of  course,  a 
doctor  cannot  make  cases  any  more  than  a solicitor 
would  occupy  his  spare  time,  whilst  waiting  for 
clients,  writing  legal  documents  on  spec.  But  whilst 
it  is  easy  to  manufacture  pictures,  they  necessitate 
actual  disbursement  from  the  time  one  gets  one’s 
canvas  till  the  frame  is  ordered,  and  then  there 

143 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


is  no  certainty  of  effecting  a sale  and  getting  back 
one’s  outlay. 

The  speculative  character  of  making  a living  by 
art  is  generally  overlooked  when  it  is  considered 
sufficiently  compensated  for  by  the  pleasurable  and 
comparatively  easy  nature  of  the  work. 

In  the  days  of  which  I am  writing  there  was  a nice, 
kind,  old  gentleman,  who  conceived  the  quixotic  idea 
of  lending  money  to  artists  on  their  pictures  or 
prospective  work.  You  had  to  be  introduced  to 
him  through  a client,  and  if  he  had  confidence  in 
you  or  your  talent  he  would  generously  help  you 
out  of  your  temporary  embarrassment  for  a certain 
consideration,  and  many  a lame  dog  did  he  help 
over  the  stile.  He  was  the  only  one,  I think,  in 
London  who  would  advance  cash  to  artists  on  note 
of  hand.  He  could  scarcely  have  been  considered 
a money-lender  in  the  accepted  sense  of  the  term, 
for,  although,  the  interest  he  charged  often  worked 
out  at  a very  high  rate,  the  risks  he  took  were 
generally  quite  out  of  proportion  to  the  security  he 
was  given,  and  his  office  was  always  full  of  pictures 
on  which  he  had  advanced  money  which  he  had 
little  chance  of  ever  getting  back.  Still  it  was 
evidently  a profitable  business,  or  he  would  not 
have  carried  it  on,  I suppose. 

I got  introduced  to  him,  of  course,  as  indeed  did 
most  of  us,  for  it  was  often  very  useful  if  you  wanted 
to  go  away  suddenly  to  be  able  to  discount  an 
account  owing  to  you.  He  got  to  know  his  clients, 
and  was  never  hard  on  those  who  kept  their  word 
with  him,  and  I was  almost  sorry  to  learn  that 
when  he  died  he  left  quite  a collection  of  unsaleable 
pictures,  which,  of  course,  represented  errors  of 
judgment,  but  I believe  he  left  quite  a respectable 
fortune  also.  In  these  days  of  depreciation  of 
modern  art  such  a business  could  not  exist,  for  the 
average  artist  has  no  security  to  offer  so  far  as  his 
paintings  are  concerned,  I fancy. 

144 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


But  let  us  revert  to  the  lighter  side  of  artistic 
Bohemianism  which,  after  all,  makes  more  interesting 
reading.  The  eternal  feminine  never  monopolised 
the  same  attention  in  London  artistic  life  as  it  did 
in  the  Quartier  in  Paris,  where  it  is  part  and  parcel 
of  the  life  of  the  student,  and  although  many  of 
us,  especially  those  who  had  studied  abroad,  had 
acquired  a continental  proclivity  for  always  being 
on  the  look-out  for  pretty  girls,  we  generally  made 
our  recreations  coincide  with  British  ideas. 

These  recreations  at  this  time  took  the  form  of 
bicycling,  which  was  then  in  a state  of  transition. 
It  makes  me  smile  when  I recall  what  grotesque 
looking  objects  could  be  seen  about  at  that  time. 
Quadricycles,  tricycles,  in  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
every  one  of  which  claimed  to  be  more  efficacious 
than  the  rest,  some  with  huge  wheels,  others  with 
small  ones. 

The  Army  had  just  began  to  adopt  them,  and 
a cycling  corps  established,  which  had  some 
machines  constructed  to  carry  as  many  as  eight 
men.  Eccentricity  was  the  prevailing  feature  in 
all  makes. 

I recollect  a tricycle  a friend  and  I used  to  ride, 
which  had  two  large  wheels  on  either  side  and  a 
very  small  one  at  the  back,  and  there  were  two  sets 
of  pedals  which  we  both  worked.  I sat  on  a little 
seat  in  front,  and  my  friend  behind  was  responsible 
for  the  steering  and  the  brake,  and  if  he  stopped 
the  machine  too  suddenly,  I was  shot  out  of  my  seat 
like  from  a catapult,  and  would  find  myself  sitting 
in  the  road.  The  tyres  were,  of  course,  solid,  as 
pneumatics  were  not  invented  then,  and  one  was 
always  having  trouble  with  them  as  they  were 
fixed  on  the  rim  of  the  wheel  with  a sort  of 
glue. 

The  most  ludicrous  results  would  often  ensue  if, 
as  would  often  happen,  the  rubber  got  warped  or 
stretched  or  the  glue  would  not  hold.  On  one 

145  K 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


occasion  I remember  we  had  to  tear  up  a hand- 
kerchief into  strips  to  tie  the  tyre  on,  with  an 
effect  that  may  be  imagined — and  we  rode  the 
whole  day  in  this  quaint  fashion. 

Not  the  least  curious  feature  of  cycling  in  those 
days  was  the  peculiar  fact  that  most  of  the  cycling 
clubs  would  adopt  uniforms  of  weird  designs.  My 
cousin  Harris,  who  rode  a high  machine,  I remember, 
belonged  to  a club  in  which  all  the  members  were 
dressed  in  a sort  of  compromise  between  a military 
officer  and  a foreign  postman,  with  black,  short, 
heavily  - braided  tunic,  tight-fitting  knee  - breeches, 
stockings  and  shoes,  and  a peak  cap.  Yet  he  fancied 
himself  no  end  in  this  motley  garb.  In  my  particular 
set  we  were  not  so  fastidious  as  to  our  get-up,  in 
fact  rather  the  other  way  about,  and  often  looked 
veritable  tramps  on  wheels  in  our  scratch  costumes. 

The  “Spider”  with  its  immense  front  wheel  and 
little  tiny  back  one  was  being  gradually  ousted  by 
the  small  “ Safety  ” or  “ Kangaroo  ” — a most  grotesque 
looking  object,  something  like  a miniature  tall 
machine,  and  which  was  the  forerunner  of  the 
present  bicycle.  It  was  driven  by  a horizontal  chain. 
Every  one  was  going  mad  on  them,  and  I,  together 
with  several  of  my  friends,  succumbed  to  the  craze 
as  they  were  far  lighter  than  the  tricycle,  and 
many  a pleasant  week-end  in  the  country  did  we 
have.  We  would  set  off  with  only  the  bare  necessities 
in  the  shape  of  luggage  and  a parcel  attached  to 
the  handle-bars,  and  make  for  the  Coast. 

How  peaceful  the  country  roads  were  in  those  pre- 
motor days,  when  almost  one’s  only  risk  was  getting 
run  in  by  the  police  if  you  were  caught  “ scorching,” 
i.e.y  going  at  a “ furious  pace,”  which,  of  course,  could 
scarcely  mean  more  than  twelve  miles  an  hour ! It 
seems  almost  inconceivable  that  so  great  a change 
could  have  come  over  the  country  in  twenty-five 
years  only. 

What  would  hardly  be  considered  as  incidents 
146 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


nowadays  were  looked  upon  as  “adventures”  then. 
This  was  easily  understood,  as  one  seldom  went 
any  distance  without  a breakdown  of  some  sort, 
for  the  machines  were  faultily  constructed.  If 
this  happened  at  a distance  from  a town  or 
village  it  usually  meant  a long  and  wearisome 
walk  whilst  trundling  one’s  crippled  machine,  and 
not  infrequently  losing  one’s  way  into  the  bargain. 
I remember  a ludicrous  incident  on  one  occasion 
of  which  I was  the  cause. 

A party  of  five  of  us  had  started  for  a trip  to 
the  East  Coast  one  hot,  summer  day,  intending  to 
put  up  for  the  first  night  at  a little  place  named 
Goldhanger.  We  had  not  got  many  miles  from 
London  when  my  “ Kangaroo  ” began  to  give  me 
trouble.  In  vain  did  we  pull  up  and  overhaul  it, 
the  trouble  continued,  until  we  had  at  last  to  stop, 
and  the  mechanical  genius  of  our  party  took  the 
chain  off  and  eased  it,  and  tried  by  every  means 
to  get  the  beastly  thing  to  work  properly — but  to 
no  purpose — so  there  was  no  help  for  it  but  to  get 
along  as  well  as  I could  and  endeavour  to  reach 
our  destination  somehow.  But  the  chain  would  not 
work,  and  I could  scarcely  get  the  wheels  to  move. 

Night  came  on  and  we  were  hardly  making  any 
progress ; I was  gradually  becoming  exhausted. 
At  last  the  chain  became  completely  jammed  and 
I could  go  no  further,  whilst  to  make  matters 
worse,  we  had  not  the  slightest  idea  where  we 
were,  and  it  was  pitch  dark.  We  found  ourselves 
on  an  apparently  new  bridge  over  a railroad,  the 
roadway  was  of  soft  rubble,  so  I placed  my  bicycle 
against  the  parapet  and  literally  dropped  with 
fatigue  on  the  ground  alongside  it. 

My  friends  realised  that  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  keep  me  company,  and  decided  that  the 
best  thing  to  do  was  to  remain  where  we  were 
until  daybreak,  before  attempting  to  find  out  where 
we  were.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  We  should 

147 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


have  to  go  without  supper  and  bed,  so  they  made 
themselves  as  comfortable  as  possible  on  the  soft 
ground.  It  was  an  unpleasant  ending  to  the 
excursion,  and  we  were  all  too  annoyed  to  speak 
much.  Our  only  consolation  was  that  it  was  a 
beautifully  warm  night.  Quarter  of  an  hour  or  so 
passed,  and  we  were  dozing  off  when  a church 
clock  chimed  out  quite  close  by  — only  a short 
distance  away.  Up  we  jumped  and  went  across 
the  bridge  towards  it,  when  to  our  utter  amaze- 
ment we  found  we  were  actually  in  a village, 
and  not  a hundred  yards  from  an  old  - fashioned, 
comfortable  looking  inn. 

All  was  in  darkness,  for  it  was  late,  but  it  did 
not  take  long  to  arouse  the  landlord,  and  soon 
we  were  all  ensconced  in  a cosy  parlour  with  the 
pleasant  prospect  of  supper  and  bed.  It  was,  in- 
deed, an  instance  of  “ All’s  well  that  ends  well,”  and, 
as  may  be  imagined,  we  laughed  heartily  over  the 
curious  adventure. 

The  adventures  of  our  cycling  days  would  indeed 
almost  make  up  a volume  for  themselves.  In  fact, 
when  one  started  on  a tour,  it  was  almost  with 
the  idea  of  seeking  them,  for  it  was  very  delightful 
exploring  wild  parts  of  the  country,  and  discovering, 
as  it  were,  out-of-the-world  villages. 

I recall  one  little  incident  which  will  convey  some 
idea  of  the  primitive  conditions  which  still  prevailed 
in  outlying  districts  and  within  comparatively  easy 
distance  of  London.  It  was  shortly  after  the  new 
coinage  had  been  introduced.  I forget  where  we 
were  going,  but  anyhow  we  stopped  to  lunch  at  a 
wayside  inn  on  a big  road  some  fifty  miles  from 
town. 

On  finishing  our  humble  meal  of  bread  and  cheese, 
and  pickles  and  shandygaff,  one  of  the  party  who 
was  paymaster  tendered  a brand  new  4s.  piece  to 
the  landlady,  in  payment.  I well  remember  the 
look  of  indignation  on  her  face.  Holding  it  in 

148 


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‘ HUNG  IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY  THE  FOLLOWING  YEAR.’ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


the  palm  of  her  outstretched  hand  she  exclaimed 
coarsely,  “ What  are  you  trying  on  ? ’Ere,  wot’s 
this?”  Our  friend  told  her  that  it  was  one  of  the 
new  dollar  pieces ; but  she  wouldn’t  listen  to  him. 
“ Don’t  you  come  any  of  your  larks  on  me,”  she 
vociferated  contemptuously.  “ I want  paying  for 
what  I sell ; I don’t  want  medals ! ” Of  course  it 
was  no  use  arguing  with  her,  so  paid  she  had  to 
be  in  coin  of  the  realm  she  recognised. 

The  advent  of  the  motor  has  done  away  with  all 
the  rural  simplicity  that  then  existed.  Of  course 
one’s  sketching  materials  were  always  indispensable 
adjuncts  on  these  tours,  for  you  could  never  tell 
when  you  would  come  across  something  that  would 
tempt  you  to  stop  and  work. 

I went  over  to  France  one  summer  with  a par- 
ticular pal,  and  whilst  riding  round  on  our  bicycles, 
we  lighted  on  a delightfully  quaint  little  fishing 
village  named  Le  Portel,  near  Boulogne,  a perfect 
Paradise  for  artists.  We  were  so  smitten  with  it 
that  we  remained  there  for  weeks,  and  I painted 
several  pictures  in  the  open,  so  quiet  was  it,  and 
returned  there  on  several  successive  years. 

The  quondam  fishing  village  has  now  developed 
into  quite  a smart  little  bourgeois  plage , and  has 
long  been  abandoned  by  artists. 

Two  of  the  pictures  which  I painted  in  Le  Portel 
were  hung  in  the  Royal  Academy  the  following 
year.  This  was  the  first  time  I had  exhibited  there, 
so  I was  very  pleased,  especially  as  one  of  them 
was  six  feet  long.  They  were  very  wrell  placed,  one 
being  “on  the  line,”  and,  wrhat  was  of  still  more 
importance  to  me,  for,  after  all,  I was  out  for  the 
shekels,  was  that  I sold  them  both,  one  of  my 
purchasers  being  Arthur  Collins,  at  that  time  stage 
manager  to  Sir  Augustus  Harris  at  Drury  Lane, 
then  and  ever  since  a good  pal  of  mine,  but  whom 
I had  not  hitherto  suspected  of  being  a patron  of 
Art.  That  particular  bicycle  tour  brought  me  luck, 

149 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


as  another  picture  I had  painted  at  the  same  time 
was  “on  the  line”  at  the  Grosvenor  Gallery,  and 
was  also  sold. 

At  that  time  the  “ Grosvenor  ” was  a very  serious 
rival  to  the  Academy,  and  many  of  the  best  known 
men  exhibited  there  in  preference  to  Burlington 
House,  as  the  galleries  were  very  spacious,  and  the 
pictures  not  crowded  together.  It  was  run  by 
Sir  Coutts  Lindsay,  and  his  idea  was  to  encourage 
painters  who  showed  an  inclination  to  break  away 
from  the  hide-bound  traditions  of  mid  - Victorian 
Art — and  one  exhibited  by  invitations  from  him  only. 

For  many  years  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  Summer 
Exhibition  was  looked  upon  as  of  almost  equal 
importance  to  that  at  the  Royal  Academy,  and 
to  be  invited  to  exhibit  there  was  a compliment 
eagerly  sought  after.  During  the  exhibition,  which 
was  held  in  the  height  of  the  London  season,  Sir 
Coutts  would  give  evening  receptions  which  were 
chiefly  remarkable,  I recollect,  for  the  weird  artistic 
attire  and  plainness  of  the  ladies  present,  whilst 
another  feature  was  the  invariable  notice  that  met 
your  eyes  — “ Chablis  and  oysters  downstairs.” 
“ Downstairs,”  therefore,  was  usually  the  most 
crowded  part  of  the  reception.  The  strawberries 
and  cream  of  the  ordinary  Royal  Academy  recep- 
tions paled  into  insignificance  against  Sir  Coutts’ 
hospitality. 

“Varnishing  Day”  at  the  Academy  was  then, 
as  it  is  now,  a very  tame  affair  compared  with  the 
“ Vernissage  ” at  the  Paris  Salon , which,  as  is  well 
known,  is  practically  the  Private  View  as  well,  and 
one  of  the  fashionable  events  of  the  year.  In 
London  the  galleries  at  Burlington  House  on  that 
day  are  entirely  given  up  to  the  exhibitors,  who 
are  even  at  liberty  to  work  on  their  pictures  if 
they  choose,  and  it  is  a very  solemn  and  uninterest- 
ing scene  as  compared  with  that  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel. 

150 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


The  English  artist  is  not  a particularly  cheerful 
individual  as  a rule,  and  on  this  occasion  he  gener- 
ally seems  too  much  wrapped  up  in  himself  to  be 
very  communicative.  Even  if  one’s  picture  is  well 
placed,  I know  of  few  occasions  more  depressing 
than  “Varnishing  Day”  at  the  Royal  Academy. 

“ Private  View,”  to  which  the  mere  artists  who 
have  only  painted  the  pictures,  are  never  invited, 
is  a purely  social  function,  for  which  it  is  very 
difficult  to  get  a card  unless  one  happens  to  be  a 
friend  of  an  Academician,  in  the  Smart  Set,  or  a 
nouveau  riche ; it  does  not  therefore  in  any  sense 
come  within  the  range  of  Bohemianism.  I say 
this  advisedly,  because  I feel  sure  that  it  will  be 
admitted  that  true  Bohemianism  and  Smart  Society 
cannot  under  any  conceivable  conditions  go  frankly 
hand  in  hand  in  London,  far  less  indeed  than  in 
Paris,  whilst  the  English  bourgeois  who  has  made  a 
bit  of  money  is  often  a terrible  snob,  and  frequently 
more  royalist  than  the  King  — the  women  folk 
especially  so.  I had  not  lived  long  in  England  on 
my  return  from  France  when  I noticed  this,  and 
I have  never  seen  reason  to  alter  my  opinion. 

Outward  appearance  and  the  style  one  lives  in 
count  for  so  much  in  London.  The  time-worn 
joke,  “ It  is  not  what  you  are  but  what  you  wear,” 
has  indeed  exceptional  significance  here,  except  in 
a certain  very  proscribed  set — nowadays  perhaps  even 
more  so  than  in  the  time  of  which  I am  writing. 
It  was  therefore,  perhaps,  all  for  the  good  of 
the  artists  that  they  did  not  receive  invitations 
to  the  private  view  at  the  Royal  Academy.  They 
would  have  probably  felt  very  out  of  it,  even  though 
in  it. 

There  were,  however,  several  London  hosts  and 
hostesses  who,  without  being  in  any  sense  Bohemian, 
yet  took  pleasure  in  having  around  them  an  artistic 
coterie , and  at  their  receptions  one  met  most  of  the 
young,  rising  celebrities  of  the  day.  Sir  Bruce  and 

1 51 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Lady  Seton,  for  instance,  were  always  “ At  home  ” 
on  Sunday  afternoons  at  Durham  House,  their 
delightful  place  in  Chelsea.  And  one  was  certain 
to  find  there  a distinguished  and  interesting  crowd 
of  people  who  had  most  of  them  accomplished 
something,  or  thought  they  had.  As  a friend  of 
mine  whom  I used  to  meet  there  said  to  me  once, 
it  was  somewhat  disconcerting  at  times  to  be 
amongst  such  a lot  of  distinguished  and  clever 
people,  and  he  always  felt  nervous  about  “opening 
his  mouth  in  case  he  put  his  foot  into  it.”  It  really 
wasn’t  quite  so  bad  as  all  that,  all  the  same,  and 
Lady  Seton  was  as  witty  as  she  was  gracious. 

Of  course,  this  social  life  was  a great  contrast 
to  one’s  unconventional  studio  existence,  but  it  did 
one  no  harm  to  now  and  again  get  into  a black 
coat  and  put  on  a top  hat  to  pay  visits  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon.  It  made  you  feel  quite  a 
respectable  member  of  society,  even  if  you  did 
have  your  best  girl  waiting  for  you  at  the  corner 
of  the  next  street  when  you  came  out. 

On  Saturday  evening  during  the  winter  months, 
we  usually  fixed  up  a mild  game  of  poker,  and 
went  to  different  friends’  houses  in  turn.  We  only 
played  for  small  stakes,  and  there  was  not  much 
damage  done,  but  it  often  meant  a long  sitting, 
though  that  didn’t  matter  much,  as  Sunday  was 
always  a day  off,  and  unless  you  had  some  par- 
ticular work  to  get  finished  by  Monday  morning, 
you  never  got  up  early.  Mentioning  this  reminds 
me  of  a rather  funny  experience. 

One  Sunday  I had  been  spending  the  evening 
with  some  friends  when  I suddenly  recollected  I 
had  a drawing  to  get  finished  by  nine  o’clock  the 
following  morning,  when  they  were  sending  from 
the  office  for  it.  It  was  already  late,  so  there  was 
no  time  to  lose.  I jumped  up  and  made  excuses 
for  having  to  run  away  by  explaining  the  reason. 

My  host,  a very  good-natured  fellow,  wouldn’t 
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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


hear  of  my  leaving  until  I had  had  supper.  I 
could  go  away  as  soon  as  I wished  afterwards. 
In  vain  did  I protest  that  I must  be  off  at  once, 
otherwise  the  drawing  would  not  be  ready  in  time, 
and,  as  it  was,  I should  have  to  sit  up  nearly  all 
night  to  get  it  done.  He  would  not  hear  of  it. 
Then,  as  a last  resort,  I told  him  that  supper  always 
made  me  sleepy,  and  I hoped  he  would  not  insist 
on  my  having  it.  “ I know  the  very  thing  to  keep 
you  awake,”  he  replied  heartily,  “ a bit  of  cold 
pheasant  and  salad,  a small  bottle  of  ‘ The  Boy/ 
something  extra  dry,  and  then  a cup  of  strong 
black  coffee  and  a liqueur  of  old  brandy ; you 
will  work  like  a Trojan,  and  thank  me  for  my 
advice — you  see  if  you  don’t.” 

His  genial  hospitality  was  absolutely  irresistible, 
and  after  a little  further  feeble  resistance,  during 
which  I became  weaker  and  weaker,  I succumbed, 
and  had  a supper  that  I enjoyed  immensely.  Well, 
I got  back  to  the  studio,  smoking  a big  cigar,  and, 
sitting  down  in  front  of  my  drawing,  started  work. 

The  next  thing  I remember  was  a startled  exclama- 
tion from  the  charwoman  : “ Lor,  sir,  you  gave  me 
quite  a turn,  seein’  you  sittin’  there  when  I came 
in.”  It  was  eight  o’clock,  and  I had  been  fast  asleep 
all  night.  The  drawing  was  not  ready  by  nine  o’clock, 
and  since  then  I have  not  been  a believer  in  supper, 
even  if  followed  by  black  coffee  and  old  brandy,  for 
keeping  one  awake,  when  one  has  work  to  do. 

But  to  revert  to  our  Saturday  night  poker  parties. 
I remember  on  one  occasion  we  were  playing  at  a 
friend’s  house  till  well  on  into  the  small  hours  of  the 
Sunday  morning.  Our  host’s  wife  had  provided  a 
lot  of  sandwiches  and  bread  and  cheese — a sort  of 
scratch  supper  which  we  had  disposed  of  before  mid- 
night. At  3 o’clock  we  were  ravenous,  and  as  we 
did  not  feel  inclined  to  break  up  the  party  yet,  our 
host  said  that  perhaps  we  might  find  something  to 
appease  our  hunger  in  the  kitchen,  but  added  that  he 

153 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


did  not  know  his  way  about  downstairs,  and,  of 
course,  all  the  servants  were  in  bed  long  ago. 

So  down  we  all  trooped  on  a foraging  expedition, 
and  to  our  joy  we  discovered  in  the  larder  some 
sausages  and  bacon  and  bread  and  butter,  so  with 
plates  and  knives  and  the  frying  pan  we  returned  to 
the  room  where  we  were  playing  cards,  cooked  a 
succulent  supper  on  the  fire,  and  made  an  excellent 
impromptu  meal,  then  went  on  with  our  game  and 
separated  about  4.30  A.M. 

Our  host  called  on  me  on  Monday  morning  and 
told  me  that  he  had  had  an  awful  shindy  with  his 
wife,  and  the  whole  household  had  been  furious, 
as  it  appeared  we  had  eaten  up  all  the  Sunday 
breakfast ! 

Taking  it  all  in  all,  therefore,  unless  work  was 
slack,  one  managed  to  put  in  a very  pleasant  time, 
for  our  tastes  were  not  extravagant,  and  the  tempta- 
tion to  go  down  “West”  of  a night  was  not  as  it  is 
now.  To  be  able  to  afford  a nice  outing  in  the 
summer  was  the  sum  total  of  the  ambition  of  most 
of  us,  I believe,  and  if  one  were  lucky  enough  to  sell 
a picture  he  had  painted  whilst  away,  the  holiday 
appeared  to  have  been  still  more  delightful,  and  it 
often  meant  a jaunt  somewhere  at  Christmas  as 
well. 

I recollect  one  autumn  I exhibited  at  the 
Society  of  British  Artists  a picture  I painted  during 
my  summer  outing.  It  was  very  well  placed,  and 
judging  from  the  press  notices  attracted  some 
attention.  There  would  have  been  nothing  worth 
mentioning  about  it  had  it  not  been  for  a somewhat 
curious  sequel.  Towards  the  end  of  the  exhibition 
I received  a letter  from  a distinguished  baronet 
totally  unknown  to  me,  saying  that  he  had  taken 
a great  fancy  to  the  picture,  and  would  like  to 
present  it  to  his  wife  on  the  anniversary  of  their 
wedding  day.  He  went  on  to  say  he  disliked 
bargaining  with  an  artist,  but  the  price  I was  ask- 

154 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


ing  for  it — £125 — was  more  than  he  could  afford 
at  the  moment;  would  I accept  ^100? 

As  it  was  getting  near  Christmas,  and  it  meant 
having  a good  time  in  Paris,  I accepted  his  offer, 
and  in  due  course  a cheque  reached  me. 

Now  comes  the  funny  part  of  an  otherwise 
commonplace  transaction.  After  the  picture  had 
been  delivered,  I received  a very  effusive  note  from 

Lady , saying  how  delighted  she  was  with  the 

picture,  that  she  had  always  been  a great  admirer 
of  my  “ work  generally  ” and  of  “ When  the  Moon 
is  Up,  yet  it  is  not  Night”  in  particular.  Delighted 
as  I was  to  receive  this  flattering  letter,  there  was, 
I must  admit,  a fly  in  the  ointment.  I had  never 
painted  a picture  entitled  “When  the  Moon  is  Up,” 
etc.  Romantic  though  I naturally  am,  I regret 
my  fancy  had  never  attained  such  heights.  How- 
ever, after  the  most  earnest  deliberation  I decided 
that  I had  no  moral  right  to  shatter  the  good  lady’s 
illusion,  so  in  my  very  polite  reply,  whilst  thanking 
her  for  her  kind  opinion  of  my  work,  I avoided  all 
reference  to  her  favourite  picture. 

The  following  day  she  wrote  again,  this  time 
asking  if  she  might  visit  my  studio  with  her  sister, 
who  was  also  a great  admirer  of  “ When  the  Moon,” 
etc.  I had  no  alternative  but  to  fix  a day,  in  fear 
and  trembling,  but,  to  my  inexpressible  relief,  at  the 
last  moment  I received  a wire  postponing  her  call. 
Although  many  moons  have  arisen  since  then,  I 
have  heard  nothing  further  of  Lady  . 

During  the  summer  months  we  would  often  make 
short  sketching  excursions  into  the  country  not  far 
from  London,  and  there  were  several  Sketch  Clubs 
formed  solely  for  this  purpose  by  different  groups  of 
men.  It  was  more  often  than  not  merely  a good 
excuse  for  a pleasant  afternoon’s  outing,  as  the 
jaunts  always  ended  up  with  a little  dinner  at  some 
local  hostelry. 

I recall  a laughable  story  in  connection  with  one 

155 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


of  these  excursions.  The  club  in  question  consisted 
of  a very  select  coterie  of  distinguished  landscape 
painters,  amongst  them  being  Keely  Halswelle,  whose 
pictures,  it  will  be  remembered,  were  remarkable  for 
their  delightful  sky  effects,  dappled  grey  clouds 
especially.  On  this  particular  chance,  the  party 
had  gone  to  Goring-on-Thames.  It  was  a blazing 
hot  afternoon  in  midsummer,  and  on  reaching  their 
destination  the  friends  separated,  as  was  their  wont, 
arranging  to  meet  for  dinner  in  the  evening  at  a 
certain  well-known  inn. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  club  to  hold  a sort  of 
impromptu  exhibition,  before  sitting  down  to  dinner, 
of  the  sketches  done  during  the  afternoon.  Well, 
on  this  occasion,  when  they  met  as  arranged,  Keely 
Halswelle  was  somewhat  late  in  putting  in  an 
appearance.  In  the  meantime  every  one  was  talking 
about  the  intense  glare  of  the  sun  and  the  heat, 
which  had  been  terrific  all  day. 

The  sketches  were  arranged  round  the  room,  and 
were  being  criticised  and  admired  when  Halswelle 
came  in  with  his  canvas,  which  represented  a beautiful 
reach  of  the  river  painted  in  his  inimitable  style ; 
but  to  the  amazement  of  every  one  it  had  one  of  his 
well-known  cloud  effects,  very  artistic  of  course,  but 
there  had  not  been  the  sign  of  a cloud  in  the  sky  all 
the  afternoon,  so  he  was  asked  jokingly  to  explain 
the  phenomenon.  To  the  astonishment  of  every 
one  he  took  it  quite  seriously,  and  calmly  said  that 
he  knew  there  had  been  no  clouds  round  about  there, 
but  he  had  taken  a boat  and  gone  further  up  the 
river. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Aventures  in  St  John’s  Wood  — A pleasant  meeting  at  Marl- 
borough Road  Station — My  welcome  visitor — Curious  incident — 
A charming  friendship — The  end  of  the  romance — An  unexpected 
call — Painters  idealising  their  models — “ Love’s  Golden  Dream  ” — 
My  search  for  an  ideal — The  stage  door  of  Her  Majesty’s  Theatre 
—The  understudy — I paint  the  picture — Strange  finale — I am 
introduced  to  my  ideal — The  “material”  as  against  the  “ideal” 
— The  nun  at  the  fancy  dress  ball — She  comes  to  the  studio — 
The  story  of  the  confessional. 

There  was  a good  deal  of  fun  to  be  had  in  St  John’s 
Wood  in  those  days,  if  you  kept  your  eyes  open, 
but  the  aventures  were  usually  somewhat  tame  when 
compared  with  what  one  had  in  Paris,  as  I have 
already  pointed  out.  Still,  they  were  often  the  more 
delightful  because  of  this,  and  there  was  frequently 
a touch  of  mystery  and  romance  which  gave  them 
additional  charm.  I don’t  suppose  I was  more 
fortunate  than  other  young  men,  or  that  my  par- 
ticular experiences  in  this  respect  present  any  distinct 
novelty  ; but  at  any  rate  there  were  a few  exceptional 
incidents  that  somehow  I have  always  remembered. 
One  in  particular,  which  I will  relate,  started  in  as 
singular  a manner  as  it  eventually  ended. 

I was  standing  one  afternoon  outside  Marlboro’ 
Road  Station  talking  to  a friend,  when  an  exception- 
ally pretty  and  smart  girl  passed  us  and  went  into 
the  booking  office.  As  she  did  so  I caught  her  eye, 
and  she  gave  me,  as  I thought,  a glance  which  sent 
my  impressionable  heart  into  my  mouth.  My  friend 
noticed  it,  and  remarked  jocularly  what  a lucky 
fellow  I was. 


157 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


It  did  not  take  me  an  instant  to  make  up  my 
mind.  “ It’s  some  one  I know,”  I remarked  non- 
chalantly, without  heeding  his  chaff.  “ I must  have 
a chat  with  her.”  Hurrying  into  the  station  I joined 
her  as  she  was  taking  her  ticket.  Raising  my  hat, 
I held  out  my  hand  as  though  I knew  her — she  gave 
a quick  look  at  me,  then  said,  “ I am  so  sorry  but 
I have  taken  you  for  some  one  else.  I thought  I 
knew  you.”  “ I feel  flattered  at  the  mistake,”  I 
replied  banteringly,  “ for  I feel  sure  he  must  be 
very  nice,  but  it  is  easily  rectified.  Every  friendship 
must  have  a commencement ; this  is  where  we  start.” 
She  gave  a little  laugh  and  said,  “Well,  I must 
hurry  off,  for  I have  a train  to  catch  at  Paddington, 
and  shall  miss  it  if  I stop  now.  Please  let  me  go.” 
“ But  I must  see  you  again,”  I replied  desperately, 
for  she  was  ever  so  much  prettier  than  I had  at 
first  thought,  and  one  didn’t  meet  anything  like 
that  as  a rule  by  accident.  An  idea  occurred  to 
me.  “You  have  just  got  the  face  I want  for  a 
picture  I’m  painting,”  I said ; “ do  please  make  an 
appointment,  and  let  me  know  where  I can  write 
you.”  I could  see  she  was  really  on  tenterhooks 
to  get  away.  “No,  I can’t  do  that.  I live  with  my 
people,  and  they  are  very  strict.  We  are  sure  to 
meet  again  some  day,  so  good-bye  now,  I really 
must  go.”  But  I was  not  to  be  put  off  so  easily. 
She  was  handing  her  ticket  to  be  clipped,  and  just 
about  to  pass  through  the  barrier ; another  instant 
she  would  have  gone.  “ If  I give  you  my  address,” 
I said,  “will  you  come  and  see  me  one  day?  Do, 
please.”  My  persistence  seemed  to  amuse  and 
interest  her.  “Well,  give  me  the  address  of  your 
studio  quickly,  and  I will  think  it  over,”  she  replied. 
There  was  no  time  to  lose.  I felt  in  my  pocket  for 
an  envelope,  but  I hadn’t  got  one  ; luckily  I had  a 
pencil  handy,  an  unusual  thing  for  an  artist,  but 
not  a piece  of  paper  to  write  on.  She  had  a book 
covered  with  brown  paper  under  her  arm.  To  seize 

158 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


it  and  to  scrawl  my  name  and  address  on  it  was 
the  work  of  an  instant.  A hurried  good-bye  and 
she  had  disappeared. 

“You  don’t  lose  much  time,  old  man,”  said  my 
friend,  as  I rejoined  him.  He  had  evidently  realised 
that  this  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  I had 
met  the  lady,  and  was  perhaps  a bit  annoyed  he 
had  let  me  have  it  all  my  own  way. 

For  the  next  few  days  her  face  haunted  me;  I 
could  not  get  it  out  of  my  mind,  and  the  recollection 
of  our  hasty  chat.  What  a delightful  girl  she  was, 
and  what  a bit  of  luck  it  would  be  if  I ever  saw 
her  again,  and  we  should  become  great  friends ! 
I had  not  the  slightest  clue  as  to  her  name  or  even 
where  she  lived.  How  stupid  of  me  it  was  not  to 
have  a notebook  handy,  then  I could  have  got  her 
name  and  an  address  to  write  to.  I determined 
never  to  go  out  again  without  one  in  my  pocket. 

In  the  meantime,  for  several  days  I wandered 
round  Marlboro’  Road  Station  of  an  afternoon, 
about  the  time  that  I had  met  her,  on  the  off-chance 
of  seeing  her  again,  but  to  no  purpose.  One  can’t 
bring  about  accidental  meetings.  Weeks  passed, 
and  time  with  its  usual  callousness  had  gradually 
obliterated  her  image,  and,  as  may  be  imagined, 
other  things  gradually  occupied  my  attention,  till 
at  last,  I must  confess,  I completely  forgot  the 
episode. 

One  afternoon  about  tea-time  I was  alone  in  the 
studio  when  there  came  a welcome  ring  at  the  bell. 
On  opening  the  door  I found  that  my  visitor  was 
a very  pretty  and  smartly  - dressed  girl.  I didn’t 
know  her,  but  her  face  seemed  somewhat  familiar 
to  me.  A model,  I thought.  “Is  Mr  Price  in  ? ” 
she  asked.  “Yes,  he  is,”  I said,  without  hesitation. 
“ Please  walk  up  into  the  studio.”  When  we  were 
there  I turned  round  and  said,  “ I am  Mr  Price. 
What  can  I do  for  you?” 

She  stared  at  me  for  an  instant  with  a perplexed 

159 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


expression  on  her  face,  and  asked  me  in  a surprised 
and  aggrieved  tone,  “Don’t  you  remember  me?” 

I looked  at  her  hard,  but  was  quite  at  a loss  to  * 
remember  where  I had  seen  her  before.  “ Please 
forgive  me,”  I replied,  “if  I appear  rude,  but  I’ve 
a memory  like  a sieve,  and  it  is  continually  playing 
me  these  silly  tricks.  I shall  forget  my  own  name 
some  day ! Please  tell  me  where  we  have  met 
before.”  “ Only  fancy  your  forgetting  me,  when 
you  said  you  wanted  me  to  sit  for  you ! ” she  said, 
in  a surprised  tone. 

I stood  looking  at  her  feeling  very  uncomfortable, 
and  trying  to  wake  up  my  memory,  but  in  vain. 
Although  I seemed  to  know  her,  I had  not  the 
faintest  recollection  who  she  was.  Then  she  opened 
the  purse  she  was  carrying  and  produced  a small 
piece  of  brown  paper,  and  handed  it  to  me,  saying 
with  a laugh,  “ Perhaps  that  will  remind  you.”  I 
looked  at  it,  and,  to  my  surprise,  I saw  written 
on  it  my  name  and  address  in  my  own  hand- 
writing. Then,  with  a flash,  it  all  came  back  to  me. 
This  was  the  girl  I had  met  at  Marlboro’  Road 
Station,  and  been  so  smitten  with  a couple  of  months 
before,  and  the  piece  of  paper  was  from  the  cover 
of  the  book  she  was  carrying  that  afternoon  when 
I met  her.  I don’t  think  I have  ever  felt  so  lack- 
ing in  inventive  faculty  as  I did  just  at  the 
moment ; then  a happy  thought  to  treat  it  as  a 
joke  came  to  my  rescue,  and  I burst  out  laughing 
at  my  failure  to  find  a plausible  excuse  for  my 
lapse  of  memory.  To  my  relief  she  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  it,  and  I was  forgiven,  so  we  had  tea 
together  with  not  a ring  of  the  bell  to  disturb  us, 
and  she  told  me  all  about  herself,  and  why  she 
had  not  come  to  see  me  before. 

She  lived  at  home  not  very  far  from  London,  but 
too  far  to  get  up  to  town  as  often  as  she  would 
like.  It  was  not  always  easy  for  her  to  find  an 
excuse  to  get  away,  as  her  father  was  an  invalid, 

160 


V 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

and  she  had  to  look  after  him  ; but  she  had  a school 
friend  who  lived  near  Avenue  Road,  and  she  came 
to  see  her  occasionally,  so  if  I really  wanted  to  paint 
her  she  would  be  able  to  manage  to  see  me  now 
and  then.  She  knew  it  was  very  wrong  to  come 
to  my  studio  alone,  but  she  was  very  dull  at 
home,  and  she  loved  anything  in  the  way  of  an 
adventure  ; that  was  why  she  had  kept  my  address, 
as  she  had  never  been  to  a studio  before.  So  she 
prattled  on  in  an  ingenuous  style,  which  was  as 
delightful  as  it  was  fascinating,  and  I felt  it  was 
indeed  a bit  of  luck  my  having  been  in  and  alone 
when  she  came. 

The  time  slipped  away  on  wings,  as  it  always  does 
when  one  is  young  or  old.  We  seemed  to  have  had 
such  a lot  to  talk  about  that  it  had  passed  unnoticed, 
so  when  she  suddenly  discovered  how  late  it  was,  I 
felt  as  though  she  had  only  been  with  me  a few 
minutes  instead  of  nearly  three  hours.  She  had  to 
hurry  away,  and  I went  with  her  to  the  station,  and 
this  time  when  we  parted  it  was  arranged  that  she 
should  come  and  see  me  again  during  the  week, 
when  I could  commence  the  picture. 

One  of  the  most  charming  little  friendships  I ever 
made  started  thus  in  this  unconventional  manner, 
and  lasted  quite  a long  time.  Though  we  could 
only  see  each  other  occasionally,  I really  believe 
there  was  as  much  depth  in  it  as  if  we  had  been 
able  to  be  continually  together.  Such  an  aventure 
in  Paris  would  have  ended  in  a liaison,  with  all  its 
sordid  worries  and  quarrels,  but  here  in  England 
it  was  quite  different. 

I painted  her  in  quite  a large  picture — a romantic 
subject  as  was  only  befitting  under  the  circumstances, 
an  officer  bringing  home  his  invalid  young  wife 
from  India.  She  looked  very  beautiful  lying  back 
in  a deck  chair  with  her  fair  hair  against  the  pillows. 

The  particular  charm  of  it  all  was,  I remember, 
the  interest  she  took  in  the  picture  from  the  very 

161  L 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


start,  and  it  was  due  to  this  that  the  picture  turned 
out  a success,  for  it  was  eventually  published  and 
became  a well-known  print  at  the  time. 

There  is,  unfortunately,  an  ending  to  all  happy 
times,  and  sooner  or  later  my  rhapsody  had  to 
finish — that  I realised.  My  only  hope  was  that  it 
was  not  to  be  for  a long  while,  but  I could  hardly 
expect  to  monopolise  so  sweet  and  pretty  a girl 
for  ever ; there  must  be  some  sort  of  dinomammL 
She  was  aware  that  I was  a confirmed  bachelor, 
for  I had  felt  bound  to  hint  as  much  at  the  com- 
mencement of  our  friendship. 

The  picture  finished,  there  was  hardly  an  excuse 
for  so  many  visits  to  the  studio,  and  I could  not 
fail  to  notice  that  they  were  falling  off,  so  at  last  I 
made  some  remark  to  her  about  her  getting  tired  of 
her  artist  pal.  She  said  that  I knew  very  well  that 
that  was  not  the  case,  but  the  truth  was  her  people 
had  been  getting  suspicious  of  her  object  in  coming 
so  often  to  town,  and  she  found  it  was  more  and 
more  difficult  to  find  excuses  to  get  away.  Then 
there  was  an  awkward  pause.  I felt  something 
unlooked  for  was  coming.  “ Why  don't  you  come 
down  to  my  home  and  let  me  introduce  you  to 
father  ? ” she  said  almost  abruptly,  as  though  a 
sudden  thought  had  struck  her. 

I was  naturally  taken  back  by  the  proposition, 
though  I guessed  immediately  what  was  in  her 
mind.  Taking  her  by  the  hand  I told  her  as 
gently  as  possible  that  it  was  better  not  for  both 
of  us,  and  she  understood.  The  rest  of  the  after- 
noon was  somewhat  quiet,  as  may  be  imagined. 
We  had  tea  in  the  studio  as  usual,  but  we  both 
of  us  felt  constrained,  and  when  we  parted  at  the 
station,  I had  an  intuition  that  this  was  the  end, 
and  so  it  turned  out ! She  had  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  come  and  spend  a day  with  me  shortly 
afterwards,  but  at  the  last  moment  I received  a 
wire — “Sorry,  can’t  get  away — will  write  soon." 

162 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I had  had  the  feeling  that  she  would  not  come, 
and  it  was  almost  word  for  word  what  I had 
expected.  I felt  a sensation  of  tightness  in  my 
throat  as  I read  it,  for  we  had  indeed  spent  some 
lovely  times  together,  and  I felt  I should  not  easily 
find  another  pal  like  her.  I recollect  that  almost 
instinctively  I turned  the  easel  on  which  was  the 
picture  I painted  from  her  to  the  wall.  The  eyes 
seemed  to  open  and  look  at  me  reproachfully  ! 

I heard  no  more  from  her  until  a month  or  so 
later,  when  I received  a letter  in  the  familiar  writing. 
My  heart  leaped  into  my  mouth,  for  somehow  I was 
delighted  to  get  it.  I had  been  longing  that  she 
would  write,  but  its  contents  gave  me  a bit  of  a 
shock.  “ I have  some  big  news  to  tell  you,”  she 
wrote,  “ I am  engaged  to  be  married.  He  is  much 
older  than  I,  and  I am  not  sure  whether  I am 
in  love  with  him,  but  my  people  think  it  is  a very 
good  match  for  me,  so  I suppose  I shall  get  used 
to  him  in  time  and  settle  down  to  humdrum 
married  life,”  and  she  concluded  by  wishing  me  all 
good  luck. 

There  was  a touch  of  sadness  pervading  it  that 
made  me  feel  a pang  of  regret. 

I sat  for  some  time  with  the  letter  in  my  hand, 
the  events  of  the  last  six  months  racing  through 
my  mind,  from  the  day  of  our  first  meeting  till 
now,  and  I could  not  help  thinking  how  differently 
it  had  ended  to  what  it  would  have  been  in  Paris, 
and  had  she  been  a French  girl.  It  was  indeed 
better  as  it  had  turned  out,  though  it  had  been  a 
bit  of  a wrench  breaking  it  all  off. 

Some  weeks  after  I received  a little  box  with  a 
piece  of  wedding  cake  and  a small  envelope  with 
a card  in  it,  printed  in  silver,  to  tell  me  of  the 
wedding. 

About  six  months  afterwards,  I was  working  by 
myself  in  the  studio  after  lunch,  when  there  was 
a ring  at  the  bell,  and  to  my  intense  astonishment 

163 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


she  was  at  the  door.  I was  so  taken  aback  that  I 
hardly  knew  what  to  say.  When  I recovered  my 
self-possession,  I could  only  ejaculate,  “ Fancy  seeing 
you  again ! ” “I  thought  I would  take  you  by  sur- 
prise,” she  replied  gaily,  “ and  I am  so  glad  to  have 
caught  you  in.  Aren’t  you  pleased  to  see  me  ? ” 
" Of  course  I am,”  I answered,  although  I felt  I 
was  a bit  abrupt.  Somehow  she  seemed  so  different. 
She  was  still  as  pretty  as  ever,  but  she  was  not  the 
same  fascinating  girl  who  had  sat  for  me. 

I could  never  have  believed  that  a few  months 
of  married  life  could  have  altered  any  one  so  much  ! 
There  was  a false,  light-hearted  manner  about  her, 
which  was  not  in  the  least  like  her  old  self. 

“Are  you  alone,  and  may  I come  in?”  she  con- 
tinued. “Yes,  certainly,”  1 said,  immediately,  though 
I must  confess  her  visit  gave  me  no  pleasure.  The 
recollection  of  a certain  extremely  unpleasant  ex- 
perience with  a married  woman,  which  I have  already 
narrated,  flashed  through  my  mind. 

“Nothing  much  changed  in  the  dear  old  place,” 
she  exclaimed,  as  she  dropped  into  a chair  and 
looked  round.  “ I am  so  glad  to  be  back  in  it 
again  and  see  you.  My  husband  has  gone  away 
for  a few  days,  so  I have  come  to  spend  a nice 
long  afternoon  and  evening  with  you,  and  I’ll  make 
tea  for  you  in  the  studio  just  as  I used  to,  and 
then  we  can  have  a nice  little  dinner  somewhere, 
and  you  can  put  me  in  the  train  and  send  me  home 
again.” 

I had,  by  this  time,  recovered  my  self-possession, 
which  for  a moment  had  deserted  me.  “ Sorry, 
Maisie,  but  it  can’t  be  done.”  “ Can’t  be  done ! ” 
she  exclaimed,  “why  not,  Jules?  Are  you  so  hard 
up  and  can’t  afford  it?”  “No,  not  exactly,”  I 
replied.  “ Oh,  I see,”  she  said,  “ the  programme’s 
all  right,  but  it  happens  you  have  already  arranged 
it  with  some  one  else  — some  other  woman?”  I 
said  nothing. 


164 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


There  was  a painful  little  droop  at  the  comer  of 
her  pretty  mouth,  then  she  added  reproachfully, 
“O  Jules,  how  could  you?  Well,  I suppose  it  was 
too  much  to  expect  you  to  remain  faithful  to  me 
all  your  life,  and  after  I got  married.”  I noticed 
a tear  tremble  in  her  eye,  then  roll  down  her 
cheek. 

There  was  a tense  pause,  then  as  with  a sudden 
resolve,  she  got  up  from  her  chair,  and,  holding  out 
her  hand,  she  said  very  softly,  “Good-bye,  Jules,” 
and  went  down  the  stairs  and  out,  whilst  I stood 
there,  I recollect,  not  knowing  what  I ought  to  do 
under  the  circumstances.  After  she  was  gone, 
on  turning  it  over  in  my  mind,  I came  to  the  con- 
clusion it  was  all  for  the  best 

One  hears  a lot  about  artists  idealising  their 
models,  and  there  is  undoubtedly  a good  deal  of 
truth  in  it,  for  the  charm  of  the  successful  picture 
lies,  not  so  much  in  a close  adherence  to  nature, 
as  in  the  individualisation  the  painter  puts  into  his 
work.  It  is  this  that  constitutes  the  difference 
between  a life-like  portrait  and  a good  picture ; in 
the  picture  it  is  the  individuality  of  the  painter,  in 
the  portrait  that  of  the  sitter. 

I can  recollect  how  this  idea  was  first  impressed 
on  me.  When  I was  studying  in  Paris,  I had 
occasion  one  day  to  visit  the  studio  of  my  master 
Gerome,  and  I found  him  at  work  from  a model 
posing  in  front  of  him.  I was  immediately  struck 
with  the  subtle  difference  there  was  between  the 
painting  and  the  original.  That  he  could  have 
made  an  exact  likeness  was  obvious,  but  then  it 
would  have  been  merely  a portrait,  whereas  what 
he  had  produced  was  an  idealised  painting  of  his 
model,  which  evidently  embodied  his  conception  of 
what  he  wanted. 

The  well  - known  axiom  that  you  cannot  make 
bricks  without  straw,  almost  applies  to  painting 
from  the  life.  One  cannot  eliminate  the  model, 

165 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


but  the  difficulty  most  artists  have  to  contend  with 
lies  in  finding  one  that  approaches  nearest  to  the 
realisation  of  their  ideal. 

I had  a very  curious  experience  which  illustrates 
this  during  my  life  at  St  John’s  Wood.  I had  an 
idea  for  a picture  which  was  suggested  by  a song 
that  was  very  popular  at  the  time,  “ Love’s  Golden 
Dream,”  but  in  order  to  paint  it,  I had  to  find  just 
the  type  of  face  I had  in  my  mind,  as  otherwise  it 
would  have  been  very  commonplace. 

For  many  weeks  I was  trying  to  find  my  “ ideal,” 
but  in  vain,  and  I had  almost  given  up  the  idea 
of  ever  coming  across  it,  when  one  night  I was  at 
Her  Majesty’s  Theatre,  where  a pantomime  was  being 
played,  when  there  suddenly  appeared  on  the  stage 
the  very  embodiment  of  my  “ ideal  ” for  the  picture. 

She  was  one  of  the  most  lovely  women  I had 
ever  seen.  She  was  young,  and  had  the  most 
wonderful  wavy  fair  hair  imaginable.  I could  not 
take  my  eyes  off  her,  and  as  soon  as  the  piece 
was  over  I tried  all  I could  to  find  some  one  who 
could  give  me  an  introduction,  but  in  those  days 
I had  no  acquaintances  connected  with  theatre-land, 
so  it  was  a very  difficult  matter,  and  I soon  realised 
that  I should  have  to  take  my  chance  of  getting 
to  know  her  with  a formal  presentation.  I had 
serious  thoughts  of  sending  her  a letter,  but  I felt, 
young  and  unknown  artist  as  I then  was,  it  was 
better  not,  so  decided  not  to  risk  it  until  I had 
exhausted  all  other  means  of  getting  to  know  her. 

From  that  moment  I haunted  the  stage-door  at 
night  after  the  piece  was  over,  in  the  hope  that 
she  might  perchance  come  out  alone  one  day,  and 
give  me  the  chance  of  speaking  to  her.  On  several 
occasions  I caught  a glimpse  of  her,  but  she  was 
always  accompanied,  and  I could  not  even  manage 
to  catch  her  eye.  Little  did  she  realise  how  ardent 
an  admirer  was  lurking  in  the  crowd  round  the 
stage-door. 


1 66 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


At  last,  on  one  occasion,  I saw  her  coming  out 
alone.  I pushed  forward  with  the  senseless  idea  that 
I might  be  able  to  get  close  enough  to  be  able  to 
tell  her  how  anxious  I was  to  paint  her,  but  she 
was  not  alone  for  more  than  a moment,  and  I saw 
her  drive  off  in  a dainty  coupe  with  some  favoured 
admirer.  I stood  watching  the  carriage  disappear 
and  turned  round  to  make  my  way  home,  when  I 
knocked  up  against  a girl  who  had  just  left  the 
doorway.  I was  going  to  apologise,  when,  on  look- 
ing at  her,  my  heart  leaped  into  my  mouth,  for 
she  was  the  very  replica  of  my  “ideal.” 

I uttered  such  an  involuntary  exclamation  of 
amazement  that  she  gave  me  quite  a startled  look, 
and  our  eyes  met.  That  look  was  in  itself  suffi- 
cient introduction,  so  I raised  my  hat  and  apologised 
for  speaking  to  her,  then  straight  away  told  her  what 
had  caused  me  to  express  such  audible  surprise.  She 
listened  with  amused  interest  to  what  I told  her,  then 
to  my  astonishment  she  informed  me  she  was  the 
“understudy”  of  the  lady  in  question,  and  laugh- 
ingly asked  me  if  she  wouldn’t  do  as  well  as  her 
for  the  picture. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  fortunate.  I was 
indeed  in  luck’s  way,  so  I jumped  at  her  suggestion, 
and  she  said  that  if  I would  give  her  my  address  she 
would  come  and  see  me  the  next  day ; then  I could 
decide  if  she  were  sufficiently  like  my  ideal  for 
the  wonderful  picture  I had  in  my  mind.  She  lived 
in  the  opposite  direction  to  me.  She  was,  so  she 
informed  me,  only  quite  a simple  girl,  without  ex- 
travagant notions,  so  she  went  home  by  ’bus. 

The  next  day,  true  to  her  promise,  she  turned 
up  at  the  studio,  and  in  the  bright  light  of  day 
she  looked  even  prettier  than  I had  thought  her 
the  previous  evening. 

It  is  a severe  test  of  beauty  to  place  it  facing  a 
big  skylight,  and  a girl  has  to  be  very  young  and 
have  a splendid  complexion  to  stand  it  successfully. 

167 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I remember  her  laughingly  waiting  the  result  of  my 
critical  scrutiny.  “Will  I do?”  she  asked  with  mock 
seriousness,  and  I told  her  that  if  she  would  sit  for 
the  picture,  I felt  sure  I should  make  a success  of 
it.  Well,  she  consented,  and  put  her  heart  and 
soul  into  it. 

I never  had  a better  or  more  patient  model,  and  if 
the  picture  had  not  turned  out  trumps  it  was  through 
no  fault  of  hers.  But  curiously  enough  the  whole 
time  I was  painting  her,  though  she  was  just  the 
type  I had  been  looking  for,  I still  had  in  my  mind 
the  image  of  the  other  girl  whose  understudy  she 
was,  and  strange  as  it  may  appear,  actually  painted 
the  other  girl’s  face  from  the  girl  who  was  sitting 
for  me.  This  sounds  somewhat  Irish,  but  I hope 
I make  myself  understood,  for  this  is  essential,  as 
will  be  seen  by  the  curious  denouement  of  the 
incident. 

All  went  without  a hitch.  The  picture  was  bought 
by  a West-End  picture  dealer,  who  had  it  reproduced 
in  facsimile,  and  it  eventually  was  to  be  seen  in  most 
of  the  print-sellers’  windows. 

Now  comes  the  curious  finale.  Some  months  later 
I was  at  a public  dance — I forget  where  now — and  was 
standing  by  the  door  with  a journalist  friend  watch- 
ing the  people  come  in,  when  my  friend  remarked, 
“ What  a lovely  woman  ! ” and,  suddenly,  who  should 
enter  with  all  the  stately  grace  of  a queen  of  beauty, 
but  my  “ ideal  ” for  the  picture  ! I turned  to  my  com- 
panion and  somewhat  excitedly  asked  whether  he 
knew  who  she  was.  “ Are  you  already  smitten  ? ” 
he  asked  with  a laugh.  “ No,  not  exactly,”  I answered, 
“ but  curious  to  relate  I painted  one  of  my  most 
successful  pictures  from  her,  and  she  doesn’t  know 
it.”  “ Doesn’t  know  it ! ” he  ejaculated,  and  then  I 
told  him  all  about  the  incident 

It  tickled  his  journalistic  fancy  immensely,  and  he 
said  it  was  the  strangest  thing  he  had  heard  for  a 
long  time,  and  as  a proof  of  this  the  following  week, 

I6S 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  my  amusement,  he  related  the  whole  story  in  a 
paper  he  was  connected  with. 

Two  days  later  I received  a letter  from  some  one 
who  was  unknown  to  me,  written  from  a very  smart 
address.  In  it  the  writer  informed  me  that  he  had 
read  with  much  interest  the  story  of  my  picture, 
as  the  lady  in  question  was  a particular  friend  of  his, 
and  he  went  on  to  say  that  the  episode  interested 
her  immensely,  and  that  if  I were  still  anxious 
to  make  her  acquaintance  he  would  have  much 
pleasure  in  introducing  her  to  me,  if  I would  call 
the  following  afternoon  and  take  tea  with  them. 

I had  had  many  experiences  of  the  accuracy  of 
the  adage  that  “Truth  is  often  stranger  than  fiction,” 
but  this  was,  indeed,  the  strangest  adventure  of  its 
kind  I had  ever  yet  had.  Of  course  I accepted  the 
invitation,  and  it  was  not  without  a certain  amount 
of  excitement  that  I was  ushered  into  one  of  the 
daintiest  little  drawing  - rooms  imaginable,  where  I 
was  received  in  the  most  genial  and  unreserved  fashion 
by  the  writer  of  the  letter,  a fine,  soldierly-looking 
man. 

An  instant  after,  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked 
my  “ ideal,”  and  I was  presented  as  the  artist  of  the 
picture.  She  was  very  merry,  and  made  me  feel  quite 
at  my  ease. 

As  we  were  having  tea  I had  the  opportunity  for 
taking  a good  look  at  her.  The  exquisitely  furnished 
drawing  - room  made,  as  it  were,  a particularly 
appropriate  set  - off  for  her  wonderful  beauty,  but 
somehow  on  a closer  inspection  I began  to  find  flaws 
in  my  “ ideal.”  Perhaps  it  was  that  I had  succeeded 
in  accomplishing  what  I had  intended,  and  was  no 
longer  seeking  an  “ ideal.”  It  is  always  the  unobtain- 
able that  excites  the  imagination,  and  now  that  I 
had  obtained  my  desire  I was  disappointed  with 
it.  I found  myself  mentally  comparing  this  smartly 
apparelled,  up-to-date  actress  with  the  simple  girl 
who  had  sat  for  my  picture,  and  I confessed  to 

169 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


myself  that  in  my  mind  my  model  came  out  best, 
because  she  was  decidedly  younger  and  fresher. 
Still  it  was  quite  remarkable  the  likeness  between 
the  two,  the  hair  and  complexion  particularly.  We 
naturally  had  a long  chat  over  the  incident,  and  I 
told  her  of  my  stage-door  experiences,  which  made 
her  laugh  heartily.  Then  her  friend  remarked  that 
she  ought  to  sit  for  me  for  a real  portrait,  and  she 
willingly  agreed.  So  it  was  settled  that  I should  start 
on  it  at  once,  and  it  was  arranged  that  she  should 
come  to  the  studio  for  the  purpose. 

For  several  weeks,  therefore,  I had  my  quondam 
ideal  to  myself  in  the  studio,  but  it  was  only  with 
much  difficulty  that  I succeeded  in  finishing  the 
portrait,  as  she  was  not  a patient  model.  I was  not 
long  in  realising  that  if  she  had  sat  for  my  picture 
I should  not  have  made  it  the  success  that  I did. 
She  was  certainly  a very’  lovely  creature,  and  de- 
lightful company,  but  she  was  far  too  “ material  ” 
to  personate  even  on  canvas  a subject  so  ideal  as 
“ Love’s  Golden  Dream,”  and  I gradually  found 
my’self  thinking  more  and  more  of  her  understudy, 
and  congratulated  my’self  on  my  luck  in  having  met 
her.  All  of  which  went  to  prove  to  me  that  one’s 
“ ideal  ” is  only’  what  you  picture  to  yourself  in  your 
mind,  and  it  is  perhaps  fortunate  that  one  so  seldom 
comes  across  it  in  reality.  Whilst  on  the  subject 
I recall  another  experience,  which,  however,  is  quite 
the  reverse  of  romantic.  I was  introduced  to  a 
very  pretty  girl  at  a fancy  dress  ball.  She  was 
in  a nun’s  costume,  and  had  such  expressive  eyes, 
and  altogether  looked  so  exactly  the  part,  that  it 
occurred  to  me  that  she  was  the  very  ideal  for  a 
picture  of  a religieuse.  I asked  her  if  she  would 
come  and  sit  to  me  for  a picture  in  the  costume. 
The  idea  seemed  to  please  her  immensely,  and  she 
consented,  and  came  to  the  studio  with  the  dress. 

In  order  not  to  destroy  the  illusion,  and  also  as 
I thought  to  convince  her  I was  serious,  I suggested 

170 




■ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


her  going  into  the  privacy  of  my  bedroom  to  change 
into  the  costume.  She  said  it  didn't  matter,  bet  I 
insisted,  for  I felt  that  with  a religious  subject  there 
must  be  no  hints  at  levity. 

When  she  returned  to  the  studio  she  looked  so 
demure  and  innocent  that  you  would  have  thought 
that  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  her  pretty  mouth.  I 
started  making  sketches  in  various  poses  prior  to 
deciding  how  to  paint  her.  and  whilst  doing  so  was 
chatting  with  her  on  ecclesiastical  matters-  as  hearted 
the  dress  she  was  wearing. 

Whilst  on  the  subject  of  religion  I learned  that 
she  was  a Roman  Catholic,  which  struck  me  as 
particularly  fortunate,  as  it  accentuated,  as  it  were, 
the  illusion  of  her  being  a novice,  so  I said  that  I 
supposed  she  went  to  Mass  regularly.  * Go  to 
Mass ! ” she  repeated  with  a hearty'  laugh,  which 
seemed  strangely  incongruous,  * I haven't  been  there 
for  quite  ten  years,  and  my  sister  was  only  saying 
the  other  day  that  if  ever  I went  to  cocfessioc  new 
the  priest  would  have  to  take  brandy  after  I had 
finished  I” 

As  may  be  imagined  I did  not  feel  inclined  to 
paint  her  as  a rdxgieust  after  that  little  avowal, 
so  I postponed  that  picture  and  mace  a black  and 
white  drawing  of  her  as  a ballet  girl  instead,  in  a 
costume  and  tights  I happened  to  have.  She  looked 
quite  as  piquant  in  it,  and.  as  it  rumed  out,  it  was 
far  more  appropriate 


171 


CHAPTER  XV 


The  “Grove  of  the  Evangelists” — The  “fastest”  neighbourhood  in 
London — Mixture  of  the  reputable  and  disreputable  in  the  Wood 
— The  two  classes  of  “gay”  women — Streets  of  particularly  ill- 
fame — Hanover  Gardens — Wilton  Street — A famous  house  of 
assignation — Extraordinary  state  of  affairs — The  “fast”  lodging- 
houses — Money  the  fetish  always  — Extortionate  prices — St 
John’s  Wood  “pubs”  as  compared  with  Montmartre  cafis — Rural 
quietude  of  certain  streets — Sequestered  gardens — Secluded  villas 
— The  hansom  “ cabbies  ” — Fancy  boys  — “ Bruisers  ” — The 
“Judas” — The  “best  boy” — Signals  to  the  “best  boy” — The 
stamp  paper — Beethoven’s  symphony — Luxury  and  sensuality — 
A masterpiece  of  voluptuousness — All  sorts  and  conditions  of 
tenants — An  awkward  embroglio — Liaisons — “Kept  women” — 
Sordid  arrangements — Calf  love — Amusing  incident — Story  of  a 
rich  Frenchman  and  his  mistress — The  flashy,  fair-haired  houris  of 
then — The  “flapper”  of  to-day — Sunday  tea  parties — Drunken- 
ness amongst  women. 

St  John’s  Wood,  in  the  days  of  which  I am 
writing,  was  facetiously  designated  the  “Grove  of 
the  Evangelists”  by  the  man  about  town,  and 
certain  streets  in  it  had  a very  unsavoury  reputa- 
tion ; as  a matter  of  fact  it  was  popularly  con- 
sidered the  “ fastest  ” neighbourhood  in  London,  and 
supposed  to  be  inhabitated  principally  by  theatre 
people,  artists,  and  prostitutes.  The  character  of 
the  whole  district  is  completely  changed  now, 
owing  to  two  causes,  firstly,  the  advent  of  the 
Great  Central  Railway,  and  secondly,  the  modern 
fashion  adopted  by  the  women  of  living  in  flats. 
The  railway  has  entirely  obliterated  streets  that 
in  my  young  days  were  practically  in  the  possession 
of  loose  women.  They  were  fairly  long  thorough- 
fares then,  but  are  merely  names  now,  and  quite 

172 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


non-existent,  whilst  with  others  that  were  notorious 
five-and-twenty  years  ago,  and  still  remain,  their 
character  is  so  altered  that  they  are  respectable 
roads  to-day. 

As  I have  said,  it  was  a curious  anomaly,  the 
mixture  of  the  reputable  and  disreputable  in  St 
John’s  Wood,  and  it  was  hard  to  explain.  The 
fact,  however,  was  indisputable,  and  to  me,  was 
always  somewhat  of  a mystery.  At  an  hour  when 
all  the  good  folk  had  long  been  at  home  and  in 
bed,  the  echoes  of  the  quiet  neighbourhood  would 
be  awakened  by  the  clatter  of  hansom  cabs  bringing 
these  ladies  of  pleasure  from  their  West  End  haunts, 
more  often  than  not  shouting  and  singing. 

Curiously  enough,  although  certain  of  the  streets 
were  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  this  class  of  woman, 
one  would  hardly  have  guessed  the  character  of  their 
houses  from  their  prosperous,  middle-class  appearance 
outside.  Had  one  not  known  of  the  reputation  of 
the  neighbourhood,  there  was  little  to  draw  one’s 
attention  to  it  beyond  seeing  smartly  dressed  women 
driving  down  West  at  night,  alone,  and  returning, 
usually  accompanied,  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning. 

Tl^ere  were  two  classes  of  gay  women,  the  fortunate 
ones  who  were  generally  living  under  the  protection 
of  a well-to-do  admirer,  and  who  had  dainty  little 
detached  villas  in  secluded  gardens,  and  the  less 
fortunate,  who  only  occupied  lodgings,  and  made 
their  living  from  day  to  day  on  the  streets  of  the 
West  End.  It  was  seldom  one  saw  any  of  them 
about  during  the  day  time,  so  in  reality  there  was 
little  to  offend  the  eye  of  the  respectable  inhabitants. 
Occasionally  on  a fine  afternoon,  well  turned  - out 
dog  - carts,  driven  by  flashy  - looking  women,  and 
generally  accompanied  by  very  good-looking  grooms, 
would  dash  past,  which  would  cause  people,  if  the 
driver  were  particularly  attractive,  to  turn  round 
and  smile  with  a world  of  meaning ; but,  as  a rule, 

173 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


no  one  took  much  notice  of  the  goings-on  of  the 
demi-mondaines  ; it  was  sufficient  to  know  they  lived 
there,  and  unless  something  drew  special  attention 
to  them,  they  were  unnoticed. 

When  I was  living  in  the  Wood,  there  were  several 
streets  of  particularly  ill-fame : Park  Road,  Lodge 
Road,  Alpha  Road,  Omega  Place,  Lome  Gardens, 
and  North  and  South  Bank — which  were  so  named 
by  reason  of  their  situation  on  either  side  of  the 
Canal  — Wellington  Road,  Elm  Tree  Road,  and 
many  others. 

Apart  from  the  streets  above  named  there  were 
two  which  bore  so  terrible  a character,  even  for 
St  John’s  Wood,  that  they  require  special  reference — 
Hanover  Gardens,  which  had  been  re-named  Lome 
Gardens,  and  has  now  practically  ceased  to  exist, 
and  Wilton  Street,  which  was  also  re-christened. 
It  was  said  in  those  days  that  there  had  never 
been  anything  in  London  to  equal  them  for  down- 
right iniquity,  and  of  Wilton  Street  in  particular, 
that  it  was  “the  limit.”  I can  well  remember  my 
impression  on  first  passing  through  it,  and  how 
in  my  mind  I contrasted  it  with  the  very  lowest 
quarters  in  Paris,  and  was  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  latter  had  nothing  to  teach  London  in  this 
respect. 

In  the  summer  evenings  one  saw  women  of  the 
most  degraded  kind,  young  and  old,  and  in  every 
Kind  and  stage  of  outrageous  attire,  sitting  on  the 
balconies  or  doorsteps,  or  hanging  out  of  the  windows 
of  the  three-storied  houses,  leering  at  the  male 
passers-by,  in  the  very  sight  of  innocent  children 
playing  about  on  the  pavement  and  in  the  roadway. 

Not  the  least  curious  feature  was  the  way  in  which 
the  authorities  for  many  years  apparently  winked 
at  this  state  of  affairs,  which  was  positively  a dis- 
grace to  what  ought  to  have  been  a fine  residential 
neighbourhood.  In  North  Bank  there  was  quite  a 

famous  house  of  assignation  kept  by  a Madam  J . 

174 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


It  was  most  luxuriously  furnished,  and  it  was  said 
she  had  most  of  the  best-looking  girls  in  the  town 
on  her  books,  and  all  the  “biggest  swells”  used  to 
go  there.  Streets,  which  have  now  become  quite 
respectable,  at  that  time  were  entirely  given  up  to 
harlotry  of  the  most  brazen  type.  As  an  instance 
of  the  most  extraordinary  state  of  affairs  existing, 
I may  mention  that  I have  myself  seen  in  broad 
daylight  two  women  stripped  to  the  waist  fighting 
in  a front  garden  in  South  Bank,  with  a crowd  of 
children  looking  on. 

It  is  probably  no  exaggeration  to  assert  that  there 
was  only  a sprinkling  of  respectable  houses  in  any 
parts  of  these  roads  in  those  days.  The  wonder  was 
that  there  were  any  at  all ; yet  in  one  or  two  of  them 
there  were  distinguished  writers  and  others  who  lived 
cheek  by  jowl  with  the  lowest  characters,  as,  for 
instance,  Wilson  Barrett,  and  Beatty  Kingston,  in 
North  Bank,  Henry  Herman,  the  author  of  “The 
Silver  King,”  in  Alpha  Road,  and  many  others  whose 
names  I cannot  recall  at  the  moment. 

The  lodging-houses  were  usually  run  by  oldish 
women,  who  had  been  at  the  game  themselves,  and 
who,  when  pass/es,  in  their  turn,  started  fleecing  the 
younger  generation,  as  they  themselves  had  been 
fleeced  in  their  time.  The  most  fantastic  prices 
were  often  extorted  from  women  for  apartments 
and  board,  anything,  in  fact,  they  might  be  thought 
able  to  pay,  and  woe  betide  any  girl  who  was 
behindhand  with  her  rent,  especially  if  she  showed 
signs  of  not  attending  to  her  “ business,”  and  often 
came  home  at  night  alone.  The  hags  who  were  their 
landladies  seldom  had  much  compassion  on  them. 

Money  was  the  fetish  always  — no  money,  no 
anything.  Many  of  the  women  had  bullies  living 
with  them,  and  one  was  continually  hearing  tales 
of  blackmail  and  extortion.  Drinks  of  the  vilest 
description  were  sold  in  all  the  houses,  but  at 
prices  that  make  one  smile  to  think  of — 5s.  for  a 

175 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


brandy  or  whisky  and  soda ; two  drinks,  one  for 
the  man  and  one  for  the  woman,  always  came  to 
ios.  A bottle  of  so-called  “champagne,”  fi.  Food, 
in  the  shape  of  supper,  was  never  to  be  had  unless 
the  landlady  happened  to  have  a bit  of  cold  meat 
in  the  house,  or  you  brought  in  something  with 
you,  which,  of  course,  they  didn’t  object  to  because 
it  meant  more  drinks  with  it. 

One  was  reminded  of  the  unsavoury  streets  in 
certain  districts  in  Paris  where  the  under  - world 
congregates,  with  the  exception  that  there  were  no 
cafes  or  brasseries  to  liven  up  this  quarter.  The 
various  large  public  - house  private  bars  were  fre- 
quented by  women,  but  there  was  nothing  of  a light- 
hearted character  to  offer  attraction  to  the  usual 
casual  customer  ; whereas  in  Montmartre,  even  the 
lowest  of  the  cafes  presented  some  fascination  to  the 
student  of  life  in  its  various  aspects.  These  “ pubs,” 
however  lavishly  decorated  and  brilliantly  lighted, 
were  nothing  but  low  drinking  resorts  after  all,  and 
the  drunken  women  one  saw  in  them  made  them 
appear  still  more  repulsive. 

St  John’s  Wood  has  indeed  a lot  to  be  thankful 
for  to  the  Great  Central  Railway,  although  it  may 
have  depreciated  certain  parts  of  it  from  the  landlord’s 
point  of  view.  It  is  a far  cry  from  the  days  when,  as 
the  old  “ chestnut  ” had  it,  a “ masher  ” of  the  period 
jumped  into  a hansom  and  told  the  man  to  drive 
him  to  the  Bank,  to  be  met  with  the  query,  “ North 
or  South,  sir  ? ” 

Curiously  enough  there  was  a certain  air  of 
mystery  about  some  of  the  more  secluded  roads, 
as,  for  instance,  Elm  Tree  Road,  which  presented 
almost  a rural  aspect,  more  especially  in  the  summer 
time.  The  fine  old  trees  and  the  high  walls 
which  surrounded  the  sequestered  gardens  combined 
to  impart  an  impression  of  quietude  and  charm 
one  would  hardly  have  expected  in  so  notorious  a 
neighbourhood. 


176 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


All  the  houses  being  built  in  the  villa  style, 
which  was  so  distinct  a characteristic  of  suburban 
architecture  in  the  early  days,  and  surrounded  by 
quite  picturesque  gardens,  offered,  therefore,  a much 
desired  privacy,  which  it  was  difficult  to  find  else- 
where or  in  more  public  streets.  I have  often 
thought  if  these  quaint  little  houses  could  speak, 
what  stories  most  of  them  would  have  to  relate. 

I am,  of  course,  only  referring  now  to  a curious 
phase  in  the  life  of  St  John’s  Wood  in  those  days. 
Elm  Tree  Road  was  one  of  the  smartest  and  the  best 
frequented  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  women 
who  lived  there  were  generally  more  prosperous  and 
less  disorderly  than  their  sisters  in  the  other  roads 
I have  mentioned.  Several  nice  people,  and  some 
well-known  artists,  as  I have  said,  had  studios  here, 
and  that,  I thought,  gave  a certain  tone  to  the  road  ; 
but  this  was  only  a thin  veneer  of  respectability,  for 
early  in  the  evening  and  late  at  night  the  many 
hansoms  and  smart  broughams  going  to  the  various 
houses  would  rudely  dispel  the  feeling  of  rural 
quietude  and  remind  one  that  gilded  vice  had  its 
abode  there. 

The  hansom  cabbies  must  have  had  good  times 
from  all  accounts,  for  they  would  frequently  be 
kept  waiting  all  night,  as  was  well  known,  and  these 
men  could  have  told  some  curious  stories  of  the 
goings-on  of  the  swells  and  the  smart  demi-mondaines . 
It  was  often  hinted  that  several  of  the  dapper 
drivers  of  the  best  turned-out  cabs  were  really  the 
“ fancy-boys  ” of  the  ladies  they  drove  down  West 
in  the  day  or  to  Richmond  on  Sundays,  and,  judging 
from  appearance,  there  was  probably  a good  deal  of 
truth  in  it,  as  they  could  scarcely  manage  to  dress 
themselves  as  they  did,  with  their  wonderfully  shiny 
hats  and  smart  gloves,  patent  boots,  flower  in  button- 
hole, on  their  legitimate  earnings. 

They  were  often  also  “ bruisers  ” as  well,  if  one 
could  believe  the  stories  one  was  continually  hearing 

1 77  M 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


of  their  goings-on,  and  woe  betide  the  masher 
who  tried  to  bilk  a girl,  or  who  did  not  shell  out 
what  they  thought  he  ought  to  pay  in  the  shape  of 
fare.  In  the  ill-lighted,  deserted  streets,  late  at 
night,  he  had  a bad  time  of  it  if  he  could  not  take 
care  of  himself,  though  it  sometimes  happened  that 
the  cabby  found  he  had  caught  a tartar.  In  these 
days  of  taxis  and  electric  light,  it  is  hardly  con- 
ceivable what  was  possible  when  I lived  in  the 
Wood,  and  although  probably  a good  deal  of  the 
same  sort  of  thing  still  exists,  though  in  another 
form,  there  is  no  doubt  the  entire  class  of  men  is 
different  now. 

The  doors  in  the  garden  walls  of  the  villas  were 
always  jealously  closed,  and  in  many  of  them  there 
was  a small  “Judas”  through  which  the  visitor  could 
be  scrutinised,  and,  if  he  were  not  known,  his  business 
ascertained  before  the  door  was  opened.  This 
appearance  of  secrecy  made  the  houses  still  more 
mysterious,  but  the  reason  of  it  in  most  cases  was 
not  far  to  seek.  With  such  women  as  inhabited 
these  houses  fidelity  is  not  a characteristic  trait,  and 
it  was  probably  seldom  that  one  of  them  kept  faith 
with  the  man  who  provided  her  with  the  house  in 
which  she  lived  and  the  means  of  satisfying  her 
extravagant  tastes. 

Many  of  the  fair  denizens  of  these  secluded  villas 
had  their  “ best  boys,”  who  would  profit  by  the 
absence  of  the  owner,  who  was  probably  an  elderly 
man,  to  take  his  place  and  have  a good  time  with 
his  lady-love.  These  “ fancy  men  ” were  quite  a 
different  class,  as  a rule,  to  the  low-down  bullies 
and  pimps  who  battened  on  the  unfortunates  in  the 
common  streets.  It  was  in  order  to  guard  against 
surprise  visits  that  the  “Judas”  was  cut  in  the  door, 
as  through  the  narrow  aperture  it  was  easy  to  see 
in  an  instant  who  was  outside  and  to  give  or  receive 
letters  or  messages.  Endless  were  the  stories  of  ad- 
ventures in  this  connection,  for  it  generally  happened 

178 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


that  the  “ best  boy  ” was  a hefty  youth,  particularly 
well  constituted  physically  for  these  amorous  esca- 
pades. It  may  be  of  interest  to  recall  that  very 
big  women  were  the  favourites  then,  for  the  “flapper” 
of  to-day  was  non-existent.  No  doubt  bachelors  of 
gregarious  tastes  had  many  opportunities  for  adven- 
tures of  a gallant  nature  in  these  quiet  by  - ways. 
For  myself  I saw  no  charm  in  them.  Perhaps  my 
character  tends  somewhat  to  the  sentimental  side, 
and  there  must  ever  be  for  me  a touch  of  the 
romantic.  I am  afraid,  notwithstanding  many 
shattered  illusions,  it  is  my  nature  always  to  hoist 
my  latest  “ attraction  ” on  to  a pedestal.  One  did 
not,  however,  live  in  the  midst  of  all  this  fast  life 
with  one’s  eyes  shut,  and  I recall  many  weird  and 
amusing  subterfuges  to  circumvent  the  precautions 
of  the  liege  lord  to  remain  in  sole  possession. 

One  of  the  tricks  struck  me  as  being  extremely 
ingenious  in  its  simplicity.  When  Miss  Kathleen 
De  Vere  (as  we  will  call  her — for  all  these  ladies 
were  called  by  aristocratic  names)  received  an  un- 
expected visit  from  her  aged  but  wealthy  admirer 
at  a moment  when  she  was  awaiting  the  more 
congenial  arrival  of  her  best  boy  for  the  moment, 
her  maid  had  instructions  to  stick  a piece  of  stamp 
paper  in  a pre-arranged  spot  in  a dark  corner  of 
the  gateway.  Then  when  Algy  turned  up,  full  of 
love  and  anticipation,  he  recognised  the  warning 
that  the  coast  was  not  clear,  and  departed  dis- 
consolate, after  having  removed  the  stamp  paper  as 
a return  signal  that  he  had  kept  the  appointment. 

In  many  of  the  houses  the  door  would  not  be 
opened  unless  a signal  which  had  been  preconcerted 
was  given.  This  either  took  the  form  of  a peculiar 
knock  or  a particular  whistle.  A lady  who  was  of 
musical  tastes  had  conceived  the  idea  of  getting  her 
lover  to  signal  his  presence  outside  by  whistling  the 
opening  bars  of  Beethoven’s  famous  No.  5 Symphony 
in  C Minor ! 


179 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Had  she,  I wonder,  heard  the  legend  attaching  to 
this  symphony? — that  Beethoven,  lying  ill  in  bed, 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  heard  a man 
who  had  lost  his  latchkey  trying  to  attract  the 
attention  of  his  wife  by  repeated  whistlings  in 
this  peculiar  fashion,  outside  the  street  door  — the 
reiterated  whistling  starting  the  vein  of  musical 
thought  which  led  to  a masterpiece. 

Many  of  the  houses  were  decorated  and  furnished 
in  most  luxurious  fashion,  and  not  infrequently 
displayed  evidence  of  artistic  taste  that  would  be 
somewhat  unexpected.  A house  agent  in  the 
neighbourhood  gave  me  an  explanation  of  this, 
which  was  somewhat  curious,  though  quite  feasible. 

A lady  would,  on  the  guarantee  of  a gentleman 
who  was  looking  after  her  for  the  time  being,  take  a 
house  on  an  agreement,  and  probably  before  moving 
in  she  would  get  her  friend  to  have  it  thoroughly 
decorated  and  furnished.  A few  months  after, 
perhaps,  there  would  be  trouble  in  the  dovecot, 
and  the  place  sold  up,  and  probably  bought  by 
some  one  else  who  also  had  a Dulcinea  he  wanted 
to  keep  all  to  himself.  The  place  might  want  doing 
up  a bit,  and,  doubtless,  would  be,  and  so  the  process 
would  continue,  each  successive  tenant  adding  and 
perhaps  improving,  or  otherwise,  on  what  had  been 
done  by  her  predecessor,  till  the  whole  place,  at 
last,  might  become  quite  artistic  and  elegant  in 
effect. 

I remember  on  one  occasion  being  taken  to 
one  which  was  the  very  quintessence  of  luxurious 
sensuality,  if  one  can  so  describe  it. 

Everything  that  was  calculated  to  excite  the  jaded 
fancies  of  the  blase  voluptuary  had  evidently  been 
carefully  and  thoughtfully  designed,  and  the  result 
could  certainly  not  have  been  excelled  even  in 
Paris,  where,  in  my  time,  this  style  of  furnishing 
was  very  much  in  vogue,  and  was  a sort  of  trade 
in  itself,  as  only  a few  firms  laid  themselves  out 

180 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


for  it.  In  this  particular  St  John’s  Wood  retreat 
the  decorator  and  the  upholsterer  had  borrowed 
their  ideas  from  the  East,  and  had  succeeded  in 
producing  quite  a masterpiece  of  voluptuousness. 
From  the  moment  one  entered,  a strange  feeling 
of  fascination  took  hold  of  you.  The  windows 
were  all  covered  with  musharabeyah  work,  which 
effectually  screened  the  light,  so  you  felt  as  though 
trespassing  into  a harem. 

The  illusion  was  heightened  by  the  heavy  odour 
of  a seductive  perfume,  and  the  costume — or  rather 
the  lack  of  costume — of  the  fair  occupant  of  this 
abode  of  love,  a strikingly  beautiful  woman.  She 
was  reclining  on  a low,  wide  Turkish  divan  under  a 
tent-like  awning,  and  half  buried  in  big,  soft  cushions. 
She  had  on  a semi  - transparent  drapery  of  some 
Persian  material  that  disguised,  without  hiding, 
her  shapely  form,  and  here  and  there  a tiny  gold 
crescent  scintillated,  or  a metal  ornament  rattled 
as  she  moved  languidly,  for  it  was  very  hot  and 
oppressive  in  the  house. 

My  pal,  who  took  me  there,  and  was  a very  great 
friend  of  hers,  told  me  that  I should  see  something 
which  would  startle  me,  but  this  was  quite  a 
revelation,  and  certainly  a very  delightful  one,  for 
I am  not  a prude  in  any  way,  as  may  have 
already  been  surmised  ; but  I could  not  help  wonder- 
ing whether  she  had  donned  this  attire  for  my 
benefit,  or  if  it  were  her  usual  reception  dress.  To 
my  great  surprise  I learnt  she  was  English,  for  her 
surroundings  and  tastes  were  evidently  quite  Oriental. 

There  were  no  chairs,  so  we  had  to  sit  on  the 
ground,  which  was  covered  with  matting,  whilst  here 
and  there  were  hassocks  and  cushions.  Coffee  was 
served  to  us  by  a coloured  servant — Turkish  fashion, 
in  keeping  with  everything  else,  and  every  detail 
was  carried  out  to  perfection. 

Our  hostess  expressed  her  regret  that  a great  friend 
of  hers,  “ a lovely  girl,”  she  had  invited  to  meet  me, 

181 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


was  unable  to  come,  as  her  “ gentleman  friend  ” had 
returned  to  town  unexpectedly,  but  she  hoped  to  see 
me  another  time.  I had,  however,  already  made 
a mental  note  that  this  was  no  place  for  me, 
artistically  beautiful  as  it  was,  for  it  represented  a 
world  with  which  I was  not  in  touch  or  ever  likely 
to  be — the  world  of  the  idle,  elderly  rich  man — 
the  vieux  marcheur.  I felt  sure  without  seeing  her 
that  the  “ lovely  girl  ” who  had  not  been  able  to 
join  us  was  of  the  same  class  as  this  semi-nude 
Venus  in  front  of  me.  It  was,  perhaps,  therefore  a 
lucky  thing  for  me  her  being  otherwise  engaged,  and 
it  afforded  a very  good  excuse  for  not  prolonging 
my  visit.  So  wishing  my  friend  a good  time,  I 
left  him  with  his  lady-love. 

When  I found  myself  outside  in  the  bright 
sunshine  of  the  summer  afternoon,  I could  not 
help  thinking  how  little  one  would  have  expected, 
in  this  humdrum  London  of  ours,  to  have  come 
across  anything  so  Eastern  in  its  sensuality. 

Most  of  the  delightful  semi-rural  villas,  standing 
in  their  own  gardens,  had  seen  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions of  tenants,  and  on  occasions  awkward  embroglios 
arose  from  the  inability  of  visitors  to  realise  this. 

A case  in  point  I recollect  was  of  two  young 
officers  home  on  leave  from  India,  feeling  somewhat 
elated  after  a good  dinner,  wending  their  way  to  a 
cosy  nest  which  they  remembered  before  they  had 
gone  abroad,  and  where  they  felt  they  were  sure  to 
find  a loving  and  ardent  welcome. 

To  all  outward  appearance  the  house  was  un- 
changed, and  it  took  the  combined  arguments  of 
two  prim  maid-servants  and  finally  the  persuasion 
of  a burly  policeman  to  convince  them  that  Maud 
and  Ethel  had  made  way  for  more  desirable  tenants, 
and  to  induce  them  after  half-an-hour’s  parley  to 
retire  crestfallen. 

Imagine  their  horror  when  a few  days  later  they 
received  a letter  from  their  Colonel’s  wife  inviting 

182 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


them  to  dine  with  her  and  her  mother  at  the  very 
house  where  they  had  attempted  their  raid,  and 
which  she  had  taken  for  the  season ! 

As  nay  be  imagined  St  John’s  Wood  was  a perfect 
paradhe  for  house  agents,  and  they  would  frequently 
let  the  same  house  two  or  three  times  a year,  for 
those  love  affairs  were  very  seldom  of  a lasting  nature. 
There  vere,  however,  one  or  two  I heard  of  which 
had  coitinued  after  cat-and-dog  sort  of  fashion  for 
many  years,  but  they  did  so  simply  because  the  man, 
perhaps,  was  getting  on  in  years,  or  was  either  too 
frightened  to  break  it  off,  or  else  that  the  woman  in  the 
course  of  their  liaison  had  managed  to  get  to  know 
something  of  him  or  his  business  of  a private  nature, 
and  whicl  ^she  held  as  a sort  of  sword  of  Damocles 
over  his  h*ad. 

The  seany  side  of  this  phrase  of  Bohemian  life 
in  those  diys  was,  to  my  mind,  more  marked  in 
London  then  in  Paris,  perhaps  by  reason  of  the 
matter-of-fact  way  men  treated  the  women  they 
took  up  witi.  One  could  not  help  noticing  this, 
and  at  timet  it  made  one’s  blood  boil  to  watch  it, 
whilst  one  ptied  the  woman  who  stood  it.  The 
“ modern  girl  ’ has  far  more  spirit  and  independence 
in  this  respect,  and  would  not  put  up  with  it  for  a 
moment. 

In  those  days  the  term  “kept  woman”  was  quite 
common,  and  though  synonymous  with  the  French 
maitresse , it  iad  scarcely  the  same  significance,  I 
thought.  It  vas  rarely  that  there  was  any  semblance 
of  romance  or  'ove  about  these  sordid  arrangements 
even  from  the  start,  and  they  were  usually  entered 
into  in  the  sane  manner  as  one  would  an  ordinary 
business  transaction. 

In  Paris  a nan  would  commence  probably  by 
delicately  sendiig  the  object  of  his  desire  some 
flowers,  or  some  dainty  present  to  propitiate  her ; 
in  London,  to  pit  it  roughly,  it  was  generally  a 
question  of  “ Hov\  much  do  you  want  me  to  allow 

183  ' 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


you  a week?  so  that  you  don’t  have  to  see  any 
one  else” — without  any  other  preliminaries.  With 
the  knowledge  that  must  have  been  intuitire  to 
most  “ kept  ” women  that  they  were  only  being 
made  conveniences  of  for  a time,  it  could  aardly 
be  wondered  at  that  in  pure  self  - defence,  and 
especially  if  they  were  no  longer  young,  that  they 
should  attempt  to  get  a more  secure  hold  cf  their 
man,  and  this,  no  doubt,  accounted  for  much  of  the 
trouble  one  heard  of,  and  the  large  sums  o!  money 
men  of  means  often  had  to  “shell  out”  tc  get  rid 
of  an  irksome  tie. 

Occasionally,  however,  there  were  cases,  as  it 
were,  of  sentiment  intermingled  with  the  monetary 
relations,  but  it  was  generally  the  calf-love  of  some 
youth  who  had  lost  his  heart  over  a worran.  Still, 
it  was  genuine  affection  on  his  part  whils:  it  lasted, 
and  it  not  infrequently  happened  that  tte  object  of 
his  admiration  really  ended  by  liking  him  very 
much,  more  especially  if  he  combined  rice  presents 
with  his  love. 

I remember  a little  story  a very  food-looking, 
fair-haired  woman,  living  in  Wellingtoi  Road,  told 
me  of  an  experience  she  had  once  had,  and  its 
amusing  ending.  An  Eton  boy  wtom  she  had 
got  to  know  somehow  had  fallen  violently  in  love 
with  her,  and  used  to  come  up  to  tovn  as  often 
as  he  could  to  see  her,  and  spent  al  his  money 
on  her  — in  fact  more,  for  he  ended  ly  borrowing 
so  as  to  give  her  presents.  Of  coirse,  it  ended 
by  her  getting  quite  fond  of  the  lai,  for  he  was 
a very  gentle  and  delightful  companon. 

Well,  this  had  been  going  on  for  Jome  time,  and 
she  guessed  he  was  getting  deeph  into  debt  on 
her  account,  when  one  day  she  'eceived  a visit 
from  a stranger,  an  old  gentlemai  of  most  staid 
appearance.  To  her  surprise  he  ;old  her  he  was 
the  father  of  her  youthful  lover,  md  had  come  to 
have  a chat  with  her  about  his  s<n. 

184 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Of  course,  she  divined  at  once  that  it  was  on  no 
subject  likely  to  give  her  pleasure  that  he  had 
called,  so  she  quite  expected  a sermon,  but  she 
was  mistaken.  He  commenced  by  telling  her  in  a 
very  paternal  manner  that  he  knew  all  about  the 
little  love  affair,  and  that  he  was  at  first  inclined 
to  be  very  angry  with  his  son  about  it  and  take 
drastic  steps  to  put  a stop  to  it,  but  on  mature 
reflection  he  had  decided  to  call  and  see  her  first, 
and  appeal  to  her  to  break  it  off  herself.  He 
implored  her  to  listen  to  his  entreaties  to  give  up 
his  son.  She  must  know  it  was  only  a boy’s  in- 
fatuation, and  it  would  break  his  mother’s  heart. 

Naturally,  she  was  very  much  upset  on  hear- 
ing all  this,  for  she  was  quite  a good  sort,  so  she 
consented  to  do  what  the  father  asked  her,  and  it 
was  arranged  she  should  not  see  the  youngster 
again  when  he  called. 

The  old  gentleman  seized  her  hand,  and,  suddenly 
drawing  her  towards  him,  gave  her  a paternal  kiss, 
and  thanked  her  profusely,  more  profusely  perhaps 
than  was  necessary,  and  was  taking  his  departure 
when,  as  though  a sudden  thought  had  struck  him, 
he  returned,  and,  putting  his  arm  affectionately 
round  her  waist,  said  he  had  taken  quite  a fancy 
to  her  himself,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  dine 
with  him  that  evening  somewhere  on  the  quiet. 
The  idea  so  tickled  her  that  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing  she  said  she  would,  and  did. 

A few  days  later  she  received  a letter  from  the 
elder  brother  of  the  boy  lover,  saying  that  he  had 
heard  that  “ she  had  dined  with  the  pater  the 
other  evening.”  He  was  writing  to  her  in  con- 
fidence to  ask  if  she  would  come  out  with  him 
also,  as  he  was  so  anxious  to  know  her ! But  she 
thought  she  had  done  enough  for  the  family,  and 
did  not  reply  to  his  letter. 

In  France,  where  a long  attachment  in  Bohemia 
very  often  ends  in  marriage,  one  seldom  hears  of 

185 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


such  a state  of  affairs,  although,  of  course,  it 
frequently  happens  that  it  is  difficult  to  sever  a 
long  connection,  but  it  is  more  often  a case  of 
laisser-aller , the  couple  get  used  to  each  other,  and 
even  if  their  long  association  does  not  end  in  wed- 
lock, they  continue  together  almost  through  sheer 
force  of  habit. 

They  used  to  tell  the  story  in  Paris  of  a rich 
man  who  had  kept  the  same  mistress  for  many 
years,  and  to  whom  he  was  genuinely  very  attached. 
He  was  a married  man,  but  his  wife  had  been  an 
invalid  from  the  commencement  of  their  married 
life,  so  there  was  some  excuse  for  the  liaison , and, 
as  a matter  of  fact,  it  was  commonly  supposed 
that  she  acquiesced  in  it,  as  they  got  on  in  a very 
friendly  sort  of  way,  and  so  long  as  he  paid  her  a 
certain  amount  of  attention  she  never  complained 
of  his  leaving  her  of  an  evening  after  dinner,  which 
he  did  regularly,  to  visit  his  amie.  His  wife  at 
length  died  after  lingering  on  for  a long  while,  and 
a few  months  later  a friend  met  the  widower,  and 
when  the  usual  expressions  of  sympathy  had  passed, 
asked  him  when  he  was  going  to  get  married  to 
his  old  maitresse , since  he  was  so  fond  of  her. 
“ Get  married  ! ” was  the  reply,  “ why  should  I ? I 
am  quite  happy  as  I am,  I shouldn’t  know  what 
on  earth  to  do  with  my  evenings  if  I married 
her ! ” 

D iff  events  pays,  diff events  moeuvs  — and  although 
men  kept  women  in  St  John’s  Wood,  it  was  very 
different  and  far  more  matter-of-fact  an  affair  than 
across  the  Channel,  for  there  was  seldom  much  love 
in  these  manages,  as  far  as  I could  judge  from 
what  I learnt.  Roughly  speaking,  it  was  simply  a 
question  of  barter.  The  woman  had  something  to 
sell,  and  the  man  bought  it  for  the  time  being, 
and  so  long  as  it  suited  him  he  stuck  to  it. 

Romance  was  out  of  the  question.  Conceit  had 
a lot  to  do  with  it,  as  it  generally  has  in  these 

1 86 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


matters.  The  middle-aged  man  of  pleasure  liked 
to  preen  himself  on  Sundays  driving  in  a phaeton 
or  dog  - cart  down  to  the  “ Star  and  Garter  ” at 
Richmond,  accompanied  by  some  flashy,  fair-haired 
houri. 

“ That’s  a devilish  fine  woman  I saw  you  with 
yesterday,  my  boy,”  his  pals  at  the  club  will  perhaps 
tell  him.  He  is  delighted,  and  will  fancy  himself 
no  end  of  a dog  and  a lady-killer. 

The  same  sort  of  thing  exists,  no  doubt,  to  some 
extent,  nowadays,  but  it  is  not  so  much  en  evidence , 
perhaps  because  a different  class  of  woman  has 
sprung  up  which  is  not  so  blatant  as  that  of 
twenty -five  years  ago,  and  also,  as  I have  said, 
because  it  is  the  era  of  the  simple  girl  and  the 
“ flapper,”  not  of  the  big,  showy  type  of  over- 
dressed woman  that  was  so  much  admired  formerly. 

In  the  days  of  which  I am  writing  the  women 
used  to  have  tea  parties  on  Sundays,  and  there  would 
often  be  rollicking  times,  for  whisky  or  brandy  and 
soda  would  be  more  popular  than  the  “ cup  that 
cheers,”  and  a lot  of  heavy  drinking  took  place 
which  doubtless  accounted  for  the  redundant  figures 
of  the  fair  sex  of  the  period. 

Things  have  improved  vastly  since  then,  not  that 
I would  for  a moment  suggest  that  vice  no  longer 
exists,  as  fast  men  and  loose  women  will  always  be 
until  the  end  of  time ; but  it  is  in  other  respects 
that  all  is  changed  for  the  better. 

For  one  thing  there  is,  I fancy,  less  drinking, 
and  in  its  place  one  notes  a vast  amelioration  in 
the  tone  of  the  demi-monde  in  London,  at  any  rate. 
When  I lived  in  the  Wood  drunkenness,  even 
amongst  quite  respectable  women,  was  common. 
How  any  woman  addicted  to  drink  could  inspire 
tender  sentiments  in  a man  was  to  me  always  a 
mystery,  or  how  love  could  exist  at  all  if  either 
the  man  or  the  woman  drank,  was  an  enigma 
which  I did  not  care  to  attempt  to  solve. 

187 


CHAPTER  XVI 


Heavy  drinking  amongst  women,  continued — A terrible  scene  in  my 
studio — A midnight  visitor — A fortunate  interruption — My  friend 
the  doctor — Extraordinary  cttnvucment — Effect  of  drink  on  different 
women — A curious  incident — The  bell  on  the  leg  of  the  table. 


In  London  in  those  days  one  could  not  shut  one’s 
eyes  to  the  fact  that  there  was  a lot  of  heavy 
drinking,  amongst  women  especially,  nor  was  this 
confined  to  the  “fast”  set  only,  for  I knew  of 
several  homes  which  had  been  practically  broken 
up  through  it.  There  were  not  the  counter-attrac- 
tions and  easy  methods  of  getting  about  that  exist 
nowadays,  and  this  may  perhaps  account  for  what 
was  almost  a national  canker  twenty-five  years  ago, 
and  of  the  existence  of  which  one  was  continually 
reminded. 

I shall  never  forget  as  long  as  I live  a terrible  scene 
which  took  place  once  in  my  studio.  Although  it 
happened  many  years  ago,  every  incident  of  it 
remains  clear  in  my  memory,  and  as  the  people 
concerned  in  it  are  both  dead,  I have  no  hesitation 
in  relating  it  here. 

I was  sitting  up  rather  later  than  usual  finishing 
a drawing  with  the  light  full  on  in  the  studio,  and 
therefore  any  one  could  see  from  outside  that  I was 
in,  when  there  was  a ring  at  the  bell.  It  was  rather 
an  unusual  thing  to  get  visitors  at  nearly  i o’clock 
in  the  morning,  so  I went  down  to  open  the  door, 
wondering  who  on  earth  it  could  be. 

To  my  surprise  I saw  it  was  a very  pretty  model 
1 88 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I knew,  who  had  sat  for  me  once  or  twice.  Naturally 
— as  a lonely  bachelor — 1 was  delighted  to  see  her, 
so  without  any  hesitation  I asked  her  upstairs. 
She  did  not  require  much  persuasion,  and  when 
we  got  into  the  studio,  I saw  she  was  in  evening 
dress,  very  decolleUe , with  a cloak  thrown  over  her 
shoulders.  With  a sort  of  grunt  of  contentment  she 
flopped  into  an  armchair,  and,  looking  round  the 
place,  expressed  her  pleasure  in  somewhat  peculiar 
language,  considering  how  little  I knew  her,  at  find- 
ing me  in. 

Then  without  further  parley  she  asked  me  to  give 
her  a drink,  as  she  felt  positively  parched,  she  said. 
The  tone  in  which  she  asked  for  it  still  further 
astonished  me,  for  it  seemed  more  like  an  order 
than  a polite  request,  However,  I took  no  notice 
of  it  and  produced  a bottle  of  brandy,  which,  as  it 
unfortunately  happened,  I had  in  the  studio. 

Something  in  her  manner  roused  my  suspicion’; 
it  struck  me  she  had  been  drinking,  so  I determined 
to  keep  my  eye  on  the  bottle  and  not  let  her  have 
too  much,  as  I didn’t  want  any  unpleasantness  if 
I could  help  it.  But  she  forestalled  me ; seizing  a 
glass  she  helped  herself  so  liberally  that  she  fairly 
made  me  gasp.  I handed  her  the  water  bottle  as 
I had  no  soda.  “ Water  !”  she  exclaimed  scornfully. 
“ Who  wants  water ? ” “I  want  something  to  buck 
me  up,  and  water  won’t  do  it.  Well,  here  goes, 
good  luck ! ” and  with  that  she  drank  off  in  one 
gulp  half  a tumbler  of  neat  brandy. 

I looked  on  positively  speechless.  She  was  always 
such  a nice,  quiet  girl  when  sitting  for  me,  that  it  was 
a revelation,  this  unexpected  side  of  her  character. 
There  was  not  much  time  for  reflection. 

The  strong,  raw  liquor  seemed  to  have  an 
instantaneous  effect  on  her,  and  I at  once  realised 
that  unless  I could  mollify  her  there  was  going 
to  be  trouble,  so  I started  a conversation  on  casual 
subjects  in  the  hope  that  she  would  not  notice 

189 


* 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


that  there  was  still  some  brandy  left ; but  her  thirst 
was  unslaked.  Without  hesitation  she  said  she 
wanted  some  more,  so  I gently  hinted  that  it  was 
very  fiery  brandy,  and  she  ought  not  to  drink  it 
undiluted. 

That  started  the  ball  rolling.  “ Not  drink  it  plain,” 
she  reiterated  ; was  I so  stingy  that  I grudged  her 
a little  drop  of  brandy,  because  if  so,  she  would 
pay  me  for  it,  she  could  afford  it,  and  taking  her 
purse  out  of  her  bosom,  she  emptied  its  contents 
out  on  the  table,  and  told  me  in  insolent  tones 
“to  help  myself.” 

In  vain  did  I try  to  pacify  her.  She  was  rapidly 
getting  worse,  and  with  much  volubility  began 
accusing  me  of  all  manner  of  awful  things.  It  was 
no  use  attempting  to  check  her,  so  I tried  another 
scheme  and  treated  it  as  though  I thought  it  a 
good  joke  on  her  part,  and  that  she  was  only  pre- 
tending to  be  drunk.  But  nothing  would  stop  her 
flow  of  diabolical  language. 

Then  she  turned  her  attention  to  my  paintings, 
one  in  particular  in  a fine  frame  coming  in  for 
special  abuse,  as  there  was  a girl  painted  in  it  for 
which  she  had  not  sat.  I hope  never  to  have  to 
listen  again  to  such  invectives  from  a woman,  and 
all  the  time  I was  on  tenterhooks  in  case  she  got 
up  and  put  something  through  the  canvas,  or  started 
smashing  things  in  the  studio. 

Here  was  a pretty  predicament  indeed ! What 
could  I do?  To  go  out  and  fetch  Harris  from 
next  door  to  give  me  a hand  in  silencing  her  was 
out  of  the  question.  I dared  not  leave  her  in  the 
place  alone  for  an  instant.  In  the  meantime  she 
was  gradually  working  herself  into  a positive  frenzy, 
and  I realised  it  was  a madwoman  I had  to  deal 
with.  “ I have  been  waiting  for  this,”  she  at  length 
exclaimed,  springing  up  from  her  chair,  as  I made 
some  remark  intended  to  be  of  a pacific  nature ; 
“ and  I’ll  show  you  what  sort  of  girl  I am.” 

190 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


What  she  was  going  to  do,  I don’t  know,  for  at 
that  moment  there  came  a loud  ring  at  the  bell,  and 
that  stopped  her  and  gave  me  time  to  collect  my 
wits.  “ Sit  down  and  keep  still,”  I said  peremptorily. 
“We  don’t  want  any  scenes  here — you  understand?” 
Curiously  enough  she  obeyed  me. 

I hurried  down  to  the  door  to  see  who  it  was,  and 
wondering  if  it  was  another  woman  visitor,  when,  to 
my  inexpressible  relief,  I saw  it  was  a great  friend 
of  mine,  a doctor ; a very  good  fellow  who  often 
used  to  drop  in  and  have  a smoke  with  me.  I 
was  positively  trembling  with  excitement  after  my 
nerve-racking  experience,  and  was  overjoyed  to 
see  him,  as  he  was  perhaps  the  best  man  I could 
have  found  to  help  me  out  of  my  difficulty. 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  I hastily  told  him 
what  had  occurred,  and  asked  if  he  would  lend  me 
a hand  to  get  her  out  of  the  studio.  He  was  a 
very  big  and  powerful  man,  and  loved  anything 
where  his  strength  would  be  of  service.  “ Lend 
you  a hand,  Jules,  my  boy?  Of  course  I will,”  he 
replied  with  a grin.  “ Lead  the  way  upstairs  and 
let’s  have  a look  at  the  lady.”  So  up  I went,  my 
friend  following  slowly,  so  as  not  to  spoil  the 
effect. 

The  sight  that  met  my  eyes  was  the  most  repulsive 
one  I ever  saw.  In  the  few  minutes  I had  been 
downstairs  at  the  door  she  had  got  hold  of  the 
brandy  bottle  and  quite  finished  its  contents,  and 
was  leaning  against  the  table  to  steady  herself. 
Her  hair  all  dishevelled,  and  with  eyes  glaring 
round  like  those  of  a wild  beast,  she  was  a horrible 
spectacle  of  depravity. 

“ What  the  hell  do  you  mean  by  leaving  me  like 
this  ? ” she  yelled.  “ Don’t  you  know  how  to  behave 
to  a lady  when  you’ve  got  one  in  your  bloody 
studio.”  “ A friend  has  dropped  in  to  see  me,”  I 
replied  with  assurance,  for  I knew  there  was  nothing 
further  to  fear  from  her.  “To  hell  with  you  and 

191 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


your  friends  ! ” she  just  had  time  to  vociferate,  when 
my  friend  mounted  the  last  step,  and  entering  the 
studio,  faced  her. 

What  followed  then  was  more  like  a scene  on 
the  stage  than  something  in  real  life.  To  my  utter 
amazement  he  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise  on 
seeing  her,  and  exclaimed  hoarsely,  “ What ! you 
here?”  There  was  a deep  silence  for  a moment, 
the  two  stood  facing  each  other.  The  woman 
seemed  as  though  absolutely  petrified  with  horror. 
Her  senses  appeared  to  have  suddenly  returned  to 
her.  Then  my  friend,  without  taking  any  notice  of 
me,  walked  slowly  towards  her,  and,  looking  her 
straight  in  the  eyes,  said  in  slow,  deliberate  tones, 
“ So  you’ve  started  again,  have  you  ? Well,  you 
know  what  is  in  store  for  you  this  time.  I’m  not 
going  to  give  you  another  chance.”  He  was  livid 
with  rage  and  hatred.  Going  up  to  the  woman, 
he  seized  her  roughly  by  the  arm  with  a grip  which 
I knew  well.  “ Come  along,  out  of  this,”  he  said, 
with  the  abruptness  of  a policeman. 

Then  the  woman,  to  my  utter  stupefaction,  flung 
herself  on  the  ground  and  clung  to  his  knees,  shriek- 
ing, “ No,  no,  Jim,  not  that.  For  God’s  sake  give  me 
another  chance  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  Don’t  put 
me  back  there.  I’ll  never  touch  the  drink  again  in 
future.  I swear,  by  God,  Jim,  I won’t.”  She  was 
quite  sane  now,  as  if  by  magic.  I should  never 
have  believed  such  a change  possible  in  so  few 
minutes.  But  he  would  not  listen  to  her  entreaties. 
Without  loosening  his  hold  on  her  arm  he  said 
grimly,  “ I don’t  intend  to  give  you  another 
opportunity,  my  lady.  You’ve  got  to  come  with 
me,  and  if  you  don’t  come  quietly,  I’ll  have  to 
make  you,  so  don’t  let’s  have  any  nonsense  about 
it.  Come  on,  out  of  this.”  The  woman,  evidently 
realising  that  her  entreaties  were  of  no  avail,  burst 
into  a fit  of  hysterical  weeping,  and  allowed  herself 
to  be  taken  down  the  stairs,  or  rather  forced  to  go 

192 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


down,  because  the  stairway  was  very  narrow,  and 
there  was  not  room  for  two  people  abreast. 

Meanwhile  I was  standing  looking  on  helplessly, 
judging  intuitively  that  it  was  best  not  to  interfere, 
as  I knew  nothing  whatever  about  the  woman  or 
the  rights  or  wrongs  of  the  case,  though  I guessed 
there  was  something  behind  it  all  that  justified 
him  in  doing  what  he  was  doing.  Looking  through 
the  studio  window  I saw  him  still  gripping  her  by 
the  arm,  leading  her  through  the  garden  to  the 
street,  then  call  a four-wheeler  from  the  rank  close 
by,  put  her  into  it,  and  drive  away. 

I heard  no  more  of  the  incident  until  two  days 
afterwards,  when  he  called  on  me,  and  the  mystery 
was  cleared  up.  To  my  surprise  I learned  that  he 
knew  that  she  had  been  a model,  and  that  the  woman 
was  his  wife.  They  had  been  married  about  four 
years ; but  he  had  had  an  awful  time  of  it  owing 
to  her  drinking  propensities.  On  several  occasions, 
he  told  me,  she  had  disgraced  him  by  getting  locked 
up  for  disorderly  conduct.  Matters  had  got  so 
bad  that  at  last  in  sheer  self-defence,  as  she  was 
ruining  his  practice,  he  had  had  to  have  her  put 
in  a home  for  inebriates,  and  it  was  only  a few 
days  previously,  on  her  taking  a solemn  vow  that 
she  would  give  up  drinking,  that  he  consented  to 
her  coming  out.  But  he  had  then  given  her  dis- 
tinctly to  understand  that  if  it  ever  happened 
again  he  would  have  her  put  in  an  asylum  for  an 
indefinite  period,  as  there  was  no  doubt  it  was  a 
form  of  lunacy  which  required  a long  seclusion,  if 
it  could  be  cured  at  all. 

It  appeared  that  the  night  she  had  come  to  me 
he  had  had  to  dine  out,  and  on  returning  discovered 
she  was  not  in  the  house.  Immediately  suspecting 
that  she  had  had  a relapse,  he  had  started  searching 
for  her  in  every  likely  place,  even  the  police  stations 
in  the  West  End,  and  it  was  by  the  merest  chance 
that  he  happened  to  notice  the  light  in  my  studio 

193  N 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


as  he  drove  past,  and  it  must  have  been  a sort  of 
telepathy  that  made  him  stop  his  cab  and  ring  my 
bell.  In  spite  of  all  her  entreaties  and  protestations, 
he  added,  he  had  adhered  to  his  resolve  to  rid  himself 
of  her  this  time,  once  and  for  all,  and  he  had  con- 
cluded the  necessary  arrangements  for  her  being 
taken  into  an  asylum  at  once,  as  she  was  on  the 
verge  of  insanity. 

She  died  a few  weeks  later,  a raving  lunatic,  I 
subsequently  learned.  For  a long  while  afterwards 
the  memory  of  this  awful  experience  haunted  me, 
and  I don’t  think  I should  have  been  in  a hurry 
to  open  the  street  door  had  there  been  a ring  at 
the  bell  late  at  night. 

Ever  since  then  the  sight  of  a woman  drinking 
even  a liqueur  of  brandy  arouses  in  me  feelings  of 
disgust. 

There  is  no  doubt  there  was  a lot  of  tippling  on 
the  sly  amongst  women  of  all  classes  in  those  days, 
for  it  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  to  hear  of  men 
having  trouble  with  their  wives  on  this  account.  I 
often  used  to  think  how  surprised  Frenchmen  must 
have  been  at  some  of  the  sights  that  were  of  constant 
occurrence  in  this  respect,  for  across  the  Channel 
drinking  amongst  women  is  unknown,  and  the  whole 
time  I lived  in  France  I can  safely  assert  I never 
once  saw  a drunken  woman,  nor  did  I ever  hear 
of  one. 

The  way  the  drink  affected  different  women  was 
in  itself  a curious  study.  Of  course  I don’t  refer  to 
the  “Have  a drop  of  gin,  dear”  class — they  were 
too  well  known  to  need  referring  to;  but  to  those 
who  could  afford  to  indulge  their  particular  fancy, 
such  as  brandy  and  soda,  or  Eau  de  Cologne,  on  the 
quiet.  Many  a time  at  nice  houses  did  I meet 
ladies  who  were,  perhaps,  not  actually  drunk,  but 
decidedly  fuddled — otherwise  there  was  no  possible 
explanation  for  their  idiotic  behaviour. 

As  a rule  the  delinquents  were  women  well  over 

194 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


the  age  when  they  might  still  call  themselves  young, 
from  thirty  and  upwards,  in  fact,  from  the  com- 
mencement of  the  period  when  they  began  to  realise 
they  were  getting  passee,  mostly  vain  women  who 
sought  consolation  for  lost  beauty  or  for  some 
fancy  grievance,  and  when  under  the  influence  of  a 
“little  drop  too  much”  would  become  obsessed  with 
all  sorts  of  weird  notions. 

These  were  the  worst  of  the  whole  lot,  and 
probably  caused  more  mischief  than  all  the  out- 
and-out  drunkards  together.  Woe  betide  the  man 
who  even  unwittingly  rubbed  them  the  wrong  way. 
I came  across  several  of  this  category  at  different 
times,  whilst  living  in  the  Wood,  and  knowing  their 
character,  was  always  on  my  best  behaviour,  and 
treated  them  with  the  utmost  deference  for  fear  of 
incurring  their  enmity.  But  once  a woman  is  inclined 
to  be  hysteric  through  drink  there  is  no  knowing 
what  she  may  do  or  say. 

A friend  of  mine  told  me  once  of  a curious 
incident  that  happened  to  him,  and  which  I have 
always  thought  of  in  this  connection.  He  was  a 
well-to-do,  elderly  bachelor,  and  lived  in  a charm- 
ing house  not  far  from  Finchley  Road,  where  he 
used  to  dispense  a good  deal  of  hospitality  when 
he  was  in  London.  I may  add  that  being  a man 
of  means,  and  also  sybaritical  tastes,  he  had  every- 
thing arranged  in  his  rooms  with  a view  to  comfort 
and  elegance. 

One  day  he  was  entertaining  a friend  of  his  and 
his  wife,  whom  he  had  never  met  before,  to  lunch. 
At  the  end  of  the  repast,  just  as  they  were  about 
to  commence  smoking,  the  man  said  he  had  brought 
a very  special  cigar  with  him  for  my  friend,  and 
getting  up  from  the  table  went  out  of  the  room 
to  fetch  it  from  his  case  in  his  overcoat  pocket. 

It  is  necessary  to  mention  here  that  the  luncheon 
table  was  oval,  and  that  my  friend  was  seated  at 
the  head  of  it,  with  the  lady  on  his  right  hand, 

195 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

and  her  husband  facing  her.  As  a rule,  when  alone, 
he  usually  sat  where  the  lady  was  seated,  as  he 
had  an  electric  bell  fitted  to  the  leg  of  the  table, 
so  that  he  could  ring  for  the  servants  without  dis- 
turbing himself  by  getting  up. 

Whilst  the  husband  was  out  of  the  room  my 
friend  wanted  the  coffee  brought  in,  so  he  reached 
down  his  hand  at  the  side  of  the  table  to  ring  the 
bell.  To  his  horror,  the  lady  started  back  in  her 
chair,  exclaiming,  “No,  no,  don’t;  my  husband  will 
be  back  directly ! ” Here  was  an  awkward  predica- 
ment. What  he  ought  to  do  or  say  he  hadn’t  the 
slightest  idea.  It  flashed  across  his  mind  that  it 
was  either  a case  of  deliberately  putting  himself  in 
the  wrong  or  making  an  enemy  of  the  woman  for 
life.  Providentially  for  him  the  husband  re-entered 
the  room  at  that  moment,  and  saved  the  situation. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


I take  up  caricaturing — Sir  Frederick  Leighton  introduces  me  to  W.  Q. 
Orchardson,  R.A. — His  kindly  reception  of  me — Difficulties  the 
cartoonist  has  to  contend  with — Human  weaknesses — Amusing 
incidents — The  Frenchmen’s  tooth — The  caricature  on  the  table 
top  — A shirt-front  souvenir  — Sketching  for  the  paper — The 
“ Unemployed  ” Riots — Trafalgar  Square  on  Sunday  afternoons 
— Sir  Charles  Warren  and  the  police — Mr  Hyndman — An  un- 
forgettable experience — The  “Special  Constables” — I join  and 
am  sworn  in — The  Socialists  outwitted — Sir  Charles  Warren’s 
clever  stratagem — Funny  incident — “A  perfect  lidy” — My  first 
literary  work  for  a daily  paper — My  meeting  with  Mr  W.  T. 
Stead — I go  over  to  Paris  for  the  Illustrated  and  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette  to  interview  and  sketch  President  Carnot,  General 
Boulanger,  and  others — My  impression  of  the  President  of  the 
Republic — An  invitation  to  a reception  at  the  Elysee — Joke  of  my 
pals — The  scene  at  the  reception — My  interview  with  General 
Boulanger — Monsieur  de  Blowitz  — Monsieur  Eiffel,  Campbell 
Clarke,  and  Caran  d’Ache — Satisfactory  results  of  my  Paris  visit — 
Mr  Stead’s  facetious  remark. 


This  is  going  to  be  a serious  chapter,  otherwise  it 
may  be  inferred  that  my  life  in  those  days  was 
mostly  play  and  very  little  work,  whereas  it  was 
not  really  so.  I don’t  know  whether  it  was  the 
atmosphere  of  St  John’s  Wood,  or  the  fact  that  I 
was  still  on  the  right  side  of  thirty  ; but  during  the 
whole  time  I was  at  3 Blenheim  Place  I was  con- 
sumed with  a restless  energy  for  work,  which  was 
continually  stimulating  me  to  make  fresh  efforts, 
whilst  waiting  another  opportunity  for  a journey 
for  the  Illustrated  London  News . Wars  or  expedi- 
tions to  far-off  lands  don’t,  however,  come  along 
with  the  frequency  a travelling  correspondent  desires, 
so  I determined  to  have  another  string  to  my  bow, 

197 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


as  black  and  white  work  did  not  take  up  all  my 
time. 

With  this  idea  in  my  mind  I thought  I would 
have  a shot  at  caricaturing,  which  had  always  been 
more  or  less  a hobby  of  mine.  It  had  been  my 
ambition  to  see  some  of  my  productions  in  Vanity 
Fair , which  was  then  at  the  zenith  of  its  fame 
with  Pellegrini,  making  all  London  laugh  with  his 
wonderful  cartoons.  And  in  this  aspiration  I was 
encouraged  by  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  who,  on 
several  occasions  when  I had  ventured  to  show  him 
specimens  of  what  I could  do  in  this  direction,  had 
paid  me  some  very  great  compliments. 

My  first  serious  effort,  I remember,  which,  I may 
add,  led  to  my  doing  quite  a lot  of  work,  not 
only  for  Vanity  Fair , but  many  other  papers, 
was  a cartoon  of  W.  Q.  Orchardson,  the 
famous  Royal  Academician.  On  the  introduction 
of  Leighton,  he  was  kind  enough  to  give  me  a 
special  sitting  for  the  purpose. 

It  was  on  this  occasion,  I recollect,  that  I dis- 
covered I possessed  the  perhaps  peculiar  faculty,  if 
I may  so  call  it,  of  not  being  in  the  least  perturbed 
by  the  importance  of  my  sitters.  I found  I could 
look  on  them  all  as  merely  my  models  pro  tern .,  and 
in  later  years,  when  in  the  course  of  my  journalistic 
career,  I had  occasion  to  interview  and  sketch  many 
eminent  people,  I found  this  insouciance , so  to  speak, 
of  invaluable  service.  I have  never  felt  it  militated 
in  the  slightest  degree  against  the  accomplishment 
of  the  work  I had  in  view  ; rather  the  contrary,  in 
fact,  as  it  generally  put  me  at  once  on  a friendly 
footing  with  my  subject.  The  bump  of  obsequious- 
ness is,  I am  afraid,  not  strongly  developed  in  me. 

Orchardson  lived  just  off  Victoria  Street,  West- 
minster, and  his  studio  was  very  characteristic  of 
his  work.  It  was  very  spacious  and  lofty,  and  the 
aspect  singularly  austere  and  early  Victorian,  even 
to  the  walls  which  were  very  monotonous  in  tone, 

198 


* 


w.  G.  ORCHARDSON,  R.A, 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

though  doubtless  that  was  very  useful  to  him  in 
his  painting,  as  he  only  had  to  glance  round  about 
him  to  get  suggestions  for  the  effect  he  was  seeking. 
This  was,  as  I have  said,  my  first  attempt  at  a 
cartoon  for  publication,  and  I remember  I was  quite 
pleased  to  find  how  facile  the  work  was  apparently, 
because  I did  it  quite  easily.  It  was  only  after- 
wards that  I realised  the  success  of  the  drawing 
was  due  to  Orchardson  having  afforded  me  every 
facility  for  getting  it  right.  Many  men  I portrayed 
in  after  years  seemed  to  think  it  was  an  act  of 
condescension  on  their  part,  even  letting  you  look 
at  them,  let  alone  sketch  them.  He  was  engaged 
on  a large  and  important  picture  on  the  day  of  my 
visit,  and  I begged  him  not  to  leave  off  work  on 
my  account,  as  I thought  it  would  be  much  more 
interesting  to  sketch  him  whilst  he  was  painting, 
for  it  was  not  every  day  one  could  have  an  oppor- 
tunity for  observing  the  methods  of  a great  artist 
d Vceuvre.  What  I remember  impressed  me  most 
was  the  small  size  brushes  he  used  in  comparison 
to  the  dimensions  of  the  canvas.  It  struck  me  that  it 
must  require  a quite  exceptional  amount  of  patience 
and  conviction  to  cover  it  so  slowly — yet  what 
splendid  results  he  achieved  with  these  little  brushes. 

I did  not  take  long  to  realise  that  it  was  quite  the 
exception  to  find  a sitter  so  affable  and  unassuming 
as  Orchardson,  and  that  in  cartoon  work  as  in  serious 
portraiture  you  had  to  contend  with  that  most  pitiful 
of  human  weaknesses,  vanity.  In  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  in  order  to  satisfy  your  subject,  you  had  to  try 
and  see  him  as  he  fancied  himself,  and  what  he 
fancied  himself,  was  usually  very  different  to  what 
one  had  before  one.  I was  being  continually  re- 
minded of  the  famous  lines  : — 

“ O,  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursel’s  as  ithers  see  us  !” 

If  this  were  only  the  case  with  nonentities,  it  might 

199 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


perhaps  be  pardonable,  as  it  pleases  their  little  selves 
and  hurts  no  one  else,  but  one  feels  one  would  like 
to  buy  them  at  our  price  and  sell  them  again  at 
theirs.  When,  however,  it  came  from  men  of  intelli- 
gence it  was  indeed  laughable  to  notice  the  way 
they  had  of  preening  themselves  in  the  hope  that 
I would  let  them  down  lightly. 

It  is  given  to  very  few  men  to  appreciate  a cari- 
cature portrait  of  themselves,  however  good  it  may 
be,  whereas  it  generally  provokes  much  genuine 
mirth  amongst  their  friends,  behind  their  backs, 
bien  entendu. 

Caricaturing,  as  may  be  imagined,  often  leads  to 
amusing  incidents.  I remember  on  one  occasion 
doing  one  of  a well-known  Frenchman.  He  had 
peculiar  teeth  which  gave  much  character  to  his 
laugh — in  fact  there  was  a tooth  missing  right  in 
front.  Of  course  I painted  him  as  I saw  him,  minus 
a tooth.  I had  no  intention  of  beautifying  him  in 
a cartoon.  He  was  very  offended  when  he  saw  the 
result.  “ Why  should  I paint  him  without  teeth  ? ” 
he  asked.  “ It  wasn’t  funny.”  I didn’t  know  what 
to  say.  I couldn’t  very  well  reply  that  it  wasn’t  my 
fault,  when  suddenly  an  idea  seemed  to  have  occurred 
to  him.  He  left  the  room  hurriedly  saying  he  would 
be  back  in  a few  moments.  On  his  return,  he  grinned 
significantly,  when  to  my  surprise  I saw  he  had  his 
full  complement  of  teeth.  He  had  forgotten,  so  he 
explained,  to  put  his  front  tooth  in  that  morning. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  one  comes  across  a man 
who  is  not  so  inordinately  vain  as  to  take  exception 
to  a bit  of  fun  at  his  expense.  In  this  connection, 
perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  experiences  I ever 
had  with  caricaturing  was  at  a little  place  in  France, 
where  I was  painting  one  summer. 

There  was  a cafe  where  every  one  used  to  meet  of 
a day.  One  afternoon  at  Fheure  de  V aperitif  I was 
with  some  of  my  friends  when  a very  big  and 
pompous  individual  entered  and  seated  himself  at 

200 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


the  table  not  far  from  us.  He  must  have  weighed 
close  on  twenty  stone,  and  was  altogether  of  so 
remarkable  appearance  that  I could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  making  a caricature  of  him  at  the 
risk  of  getting  my  head  punched  if  he  objected. 

I did  not  happen  to  have  my  sketch  book  with 
me,  so  I began  making  a drawing  on  the  marble- 
topped  table  we  were  sitting  at.  As  it  sometimes 
happens,  he  had  a very  easy  face  to  catch,  and  in  a 
very  few  minutes  I had  made  an  exaggerated  like- 
ness of  him.  It  was  evidently  a happy  effort,  because 
everybody  around  burst  out  laughing  when  they  saw 
it.  Meanwhile  my  victim  sat  smoking  stolidly  and 
apparently  unaware  that  he  was  being  sketched, 
although  once  or  twice  I thought  he  must  have  heard 
the  laughter  at  our  table  and  guessed  the  cause  of 
our  hilarity.  But  he  sat  as  still  as  anything,  so  I had 
every  chance  of  getting  him. 

Just  as  I had  finished  the  “patron”  came  across 
to  have  a look  at  it,  and  he  said  it  was  so  good  that 
he  begged  me  not  to  rub  it  out,  as  he  wanted  to  let 
some  of  his  friends  see  it.  I could  not  very  well 
refuse,  so  it  was  covered  up  with  a tablecloth. 

The  next  day  when  I went  into  the  cafe  as  usual 
the  “ patron  ” came  up  to  me  excitedly.  He  had 
something  amusing  to  tell  me,  he  said.  “ The  client 
had  bought  the  table.”  “ Bought  what  table  ?”  I 
asked  in  surprise.  “ The  table  you  drew  his  cari- 
cature on,  yesterday.  He  knew  you  were  sketch- 
ing him,  and  after  you  had  gone  he  had  a look  at  it, 
and  was  so  delighted  with  it  that  he  asked  me  if 
I would  sell  him  the  table  so  that  he  could  take  it 
away.  I couldn’t  very  well  object,  so  it  was  fetched 
this  morning.”  It  afterwards  transpired  that  the 
consommateur  was  a wealthy  manufacturer  living  in 
a town  not  far  off,  and  the  Mayor  of  the  place  as 
well.  Here  was  an  instance  of  material  appreciation 
of  a bit  of  fun  which  was  somewhat  unexpected. 

One  does,  therefore,  come  across  men  who  have 

201 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


not  an  atom  of  obnoxious  vanity  in  their  composition, 
and  which  explains  their  popularity.  I remember 
after  a big  public  dinner  I was  once  at,  a very  genial 
old  chap  asking  me  if  I would  do  a sketch  for  him 
as  a souvenir.  I said  I would  if  he  would  let  me  do 
it  on  his  shirt-front.  He  laughingly  fell  in  with  the 
suggestion  at  once,  so  he  posed  for  me,  and  I made 
a large  caricature  of  him  on  the  spotless  expanse 
of  white  linen,  much  to  the  amusement  of  the  by- 
standers, as  may  be  imagined.  He  was  so  pleased 
with  it,  I learned,  that  afterwards  he  had  it  cut  out 
and  framed. 

In  those  days  there  seemed  to  be  something  con- 
tinually turning  up  which  provided  work  for  one’s 
pencil  of  an  interesting  nature,  probably  because 
photography  had  not  yet  even  commenced  to  oust 
journalistic  artists.  So  you  could  never  tell  where 
you  might  have  a chance  of  being  sent  at  a moment’s 
notice,  a railway  accident,  some  public  function,  which 
were  always  grist  to  the  mill  if  you  liked  rushing 
about,  and  one  often  found  oneself  starting  for  the 
most  unexpected  places. 

Perhaps  one  of  my  most  interesting  experiences 
just  then  was  at  the  time  of  the  “ Unemployed  Riots.” 
London  was  in  a state  of  ferment,  and  Trafalgar 
Square  on  Sunday  afternoons  the  rendezvous  of  all 
the  most  hot  - headed  Socialists  in  the  Metropolis, 
whilst  the  authorities  looked  on  benevolently. 
General  Sir  Charles  Warren,  of  South  African  fame, 
was  the  head  of  the  police,  and  had  attempted  to 
introduce  a system  of  militarism,  which  had  not 
been  over-well  received,  hence  the  indecision  with 
regard  to  taking  action  and  to  stop  proceedings 
that  had  excited  the  wrath  of  all  law  - abiding 
citizens. 

At  last,  on  one  Sunday,  it  was  reported  that  the 
police,  aided  by  the  military,  were  going  to  stop  the 
usual  gathering  in  the  Square.  I was  sent  by  the 
Illustrated  to  get  some  sketches ; and.  I shall  never 

202 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


forget  the  experience.  If  I remember  rightly,  the 
meeting  was  to  be  addressed  by  Mr  Hyndman,  a 
prominent  Socialist,  and  several  others,  and  it  was 
announced  that  it  would  take  place  in  spite  of  the 
veto  of  the  authorites,  and  it  did. 

When  I got  to  the  Square  it  was  packed  with 
a seething  mass  of  frowsy,  unwashed  humanity.  I 
wanted  to  get  as  close  up  as  possible  to  the  speakers  ; 
but  as  they  had  stationed  themselves  on  the  parapet 
facing  the  National  Gallery,  it  was  no  easy  matter. 
However,  I managed  to  gradually  work  my  way 
through  the  crowd  until  I was  right  in  between 
the  fountains,  when  I realised  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  gone  on  to  the  roadway,  as  sketching 
was  impossible  in  such  a crush,  so  I turned  to  go 
back,  but  I might  have  as  well  attempted  to  go 
through  a brick  wall.  Movement  was  impossible, 
so  I had  no  option  but  to  remain  where  I was. 
The  din  on  all  sides  was  indescribable.  All  of  a 
sudden  there  were  shouts  that  the  cavalry  and  the 
police  were  going  to  clear  the  Square.  I shall  never 
in  my  life  forget  what  happened  then ; to  say  I was 
taken  off  my  feet  would  be  to  describe  it  mildly — 
there  was  a frenzied  struggle  of  every  one  to  get 
away,  and  in  an  instant  I found  myself  wedged  in 
a veritable  human  vortex.  The  pressure  was  so 
terrific  that  I expected  my  ribs  to  give  in,  and  my 
clothes  to  be  torn  off  my  back.  Shrieks  and  curses 
rose  on  all  sides,  and  I had  an  awful  feeling  that 
I was  absolutely  helpless,  and  was  going  to  be 
crushed  to  death.  The  next  few  minutes  seemed 
like  hours,  and  I was  beginning  to  feel  I couldn’t 
hold  out  any  longer  when  the  pressure  began  to 
cease  gradually.  How  it  came  about  I didn’t  know ; 
possibly  some  police  barrier  had  been  relaxed.  Any- 
how, after  a time,  I managed  to  elbow  my  way 
through  the  rabble,  and  at  length  found  myself  in 
the  roadway,  when  I mentally  ejaculated,  “ Thank 
God ! ” for  I felt  I had  indeed  had  a narrow  escape, 

203 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


and  I made  up  my  mind  not  to  be  caught  in  a 
big  crowd  like  that  again  in  a hurry. 

Early  in  the  following  week  it  was  announced 
that  special  constables  were  to  be  enrolled  to  aid 
the  authorities  in  maintaining  order,  so  as  not  to 
have  to  make  use  of  the  military  unless  it  was 
absolutely  necessary.  The  Illustrated  suggested  it 
would  be  a good  idea  my  joining,  so  I went  to 
the  Westminster  Police  Court  and  was  sworn  in 
before  Mr  Partridge,  the  magistrate,  amongst  many 
hundreds  of  young  fellows,  mostly  belonging  to  the 
volunteers.  Wristlets,  similar  to  those  worn  by 
the  police,  armlets  for  use  when  on  service,  and 
truncheons  were  served  out,  and  we  were  informed 
that  our  Division  mustered  the  following  Sunday 
morning  in  Kensington  Palace  Gardens.  The 
authorities  were  not  going  to  be  caught  “ napping  ” 
a second  time. 

I forget  how  many  “specials”  there  were,  but 
it  is  certain  that  the  mob  was  completely  overawed 
by  the  preparations  they  saw  were  being  made  for 
its  reception,  and  nothing  whatever  of  an  untoward 
nature  happened  all  the  afternoon  beyond  our  being 
jeered  at  by  the  roughs.  The  various  Divisions 
stood  in  close  formation,  ready  for  action,  and 
hoping  for  the  chance  of  going  for  the  mob  of 
so-called  “Unemployed.”  We  were  stationed  in  St 
James’s  Park,  and  although  it  was  interesting 
enough  at  first,  especially  the  march  through  the 
streets,  it  ended  by  becoming  very  tedious  standing 
about  doing  nothing. 

No  meeting  took  place  in  Trafalgar  Square,  in 
spite  of  the  boasts  of  the  Socialists.  They  were 
outwitted  by  Sir  Charles  Warren  and  by  a strata- 
gem so  intelligent,  yet  so  simple,  that  it  must 
be  mentioned.  He  simply  filled  the  Square  with 
police,  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  serried 
ranks,  so  there  was  no  chance  for  any  procession 
to  enter.  Thus  ended  in  peaceful  quietude  a day 

204 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


that  was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  rioting  on  the 
previous  Sunday.  There  were  quite  a number  of 
nice  fellows  in  my  Division,  and  as  I was  made 
an  inspector  pro  tern.,  I had  plenty  of  opportunity 
to  make  sketches,  and  we  all  became  very  friendly. 

A funny  thing  happened  that  night  when  I got 
back  home.  It  was  very  late,  and  the  streets,  of 
course,  deserted.  Just  opposite  the  studio  I noticed 
a policeman  standing  over  a drunken  woman  lying 
on  the  ground.  He  was  trying  to  induce  her  to 
get  up.  I went  over  to  see  what  was  the  matter, 
and  found  him  doing  his  best  to  get  the  lady 
to  accompany  him  to  the  police  station.  But  all 
his  efforts  were  in  vain  ; she  simply  would  not  get 
on  her  feet,  and  declared  she  was  going  to  sleep 
there  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  and  although  he 
was  a strong,  young  fellow  he  could  not  get  her 
to  budge.  I had  been  looking  for  a job  all  day, 
so  I told  him  I was  a special  constable,  and  offered 
to  lend  him  a hand.  He  laughingly  accepted.  With 
that  he  grasped  hold  of  one  of  her  arms,  and  I 
the  other. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  I touched  her  than  it 
was  as  if  the  Parrot  House  at  the  Zoo  had  been 
disturbed.  Perhaps  it  was  she  recognised  that  I 
was  only  an  amateur  policeman,  for  she  set  up  a 
series  of  piercing  yells  which  woke  up  the  entire 
neighbourhood.  I let  go  as  though  she  had  been 
red-hot  and  immediately  she  became  quiet.  The  con- 
stable and  I looked  at  each  other ; perhaps  I touched 
her  on  a tender  spot,  thought  I,  and  with  that  I 
caught  hold  of  her  again,  differently,  while  he  said 
gruffly,  “Come,  up  yer  get,  we  can’t  stop  ’ere  all 
night.”  But  instantly,  as  though  an  electric  bell 
had  been  started,  the  piercing  yells  and  shrieks 
arose  again.  I should  never  have  thought  one 
woman  could  have  made  such  a din.  It  was 
evidently  no  use  my  attempting  to  give  him  any 
assistance,  so  I let  go  and  she  lay  as  quiet  as  a log. 

205 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


“ I think,”  said  the  constable,  “ if  you  don’t  mind  going 
round  to  the  corner  of  Higfh  Street,  you  will  meet 
one  of  our  chaps,  and  he  will  come  and  give  me 
a hand.”  Just  at  that  moment  he  espied  a constable 
coming  round  the  corner,  evidently  attracted  by 
the  screams,  and  he  came  over  to  us.  He  turned 
out  to  be  a sergeant.  The  finale  then  was  brief. 
“Up  you  get,  old  lady,”  he  said,  and  they  both 
caught  hold  of  her  under  her  arms,  none  too  gently, 
and  she  was  on  her  feet  in  a trice.  As  they  were 
taking  her  off  she  turned  to  me  and  vociferated 
at  the  top  of  her  voice : “ D’yer  fink  as  ’ow  I’d 
allow  a beast  like  you  to  put  ’ands  on  a perfect 
lidy  like  me?  Not  much.  I’m  a respectable 
married  woman,  I am,  and  don’t  you  forgit 
it!” 

A few  months  after  my  special  constable  experi- 
ence, an  idea  occurred  to  me  which  wras  fraught 
with  much  consequence  in  my  life  subsequently. 
I cannot  recall  what  it  was  suggested  it  to  me,  but 
I remember  I was  going  over  to  Paris  to  see  the 
Salon  when  I suddenly  thought  I might  as  well,  if 
possible,  combine  work  with  pleasure,  and  pay  my 
expenses  out  of  it.  Then,  indeed,  I should  have  an 
ideal  holiday  from  an  artist’s  point  of  view. 

There  were  at  the  time  several  interesting  events 
on  the  tapis  in  France  ; but  first  and  foremost  was 
the  Boulangist  movement,  which  was  then  in  full 
swing,  and  the  brav ’ general  the  man  of  the  hour. 
I went  to  the  Illustrated  London  News  and  told 
Mr  Ingram  I was  going  over  to  Paris,  and  asked 
if  he  would  like  me  to  get  him  some  sketches 
from  life  of  the  popular  hero.  It  did  not  take 
him  long  to  make  up  his  mind,  and  in  a few 
minutes  I had  an  Illustrated  London  News  card 
duly  filled  in  with  my  name,  accrediting  me  as 
their  special  artist  in  Paris.  Then  I asked  him  if 
there  were  any  objection  to  my  doing  some  work 
for  a daily  paper  at  the  same  time.  He  had 

206 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

no  objection,  so  it  only  remained  now  for  me  to 
endeavour  to  carry  out ‘my  idea.  I therefore  went 
to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  office  and  boldly  asked 
to  see  Mr  Stead,  the  editor. 

YV.  T.  Stead  was  one  of  the  men  of  the  hour  at 
that  time,  and  had  made  a power  of  the  Pall  Mall. 
He  had  introduced  many  striking  innovations  in 
daily  journalism,  amongst  others  the  illustrated 
interview. 

I well  remember  the  trepidation  I felt  when  I 
was  shown  into  the  room  of  the  great  man,  for  I 
felt  it  was  awful  cheek  my  venturing  to  call  on 
him  at  all,  since  I had  never  written  a line  in  my 
life.  However,  he  received  me  very  affably.  Editors 
were  considered  almost  inaccessible  in  those  days 
to  outsiders ; so  I was  in  luck’s  way  seeing  him 
at  all. 

I plucked  up  courage,  therefore,  and  told  him  I 
was  going  to  sketch  Boulanger  for  the  Illustrated 
London  News , and  that  I spoke  French  fluently, 
and  would  he  like  me  to  do  an  interview  with  him 
at  the  same  time  for  the  Pall  Mall ? “ Have  you 

had  much  experience  at  interviewing?”  he  asked 
me,  in  kindly  tones,  for  he  must  have  perceived 
that  I was  quite  a beginner. 

He  was  so  sympathetic  and  friendly  in  his  manner 
that  I thought  it  best  to  be  candid,  so  replied  that 
this  was  absolutely  my  first  attempt  in  journalism. 
This  seemed  rather  to  amuse  him,  and  he  gave  me 
to  understand  that  if  I cared  to  do  it  on  spec,  and 
it  was  good  enough  to  be  used,  he  would  be  glad 
to  have  it.  This  was,  perhaps,  somewhat  on  the 
lines  of  the  immortal  resolution  of  the  Committee 
of  the  Pickwick  Club,  though,  of  course,  I could 
hardly  have  expected  him  to  say  more,  so  I agreed 
to  have  a try  at  it.  Then,  as  though  a thought 
had  struck  him,  he  asked,  “ Do  you  think  you 
could  get  one  with  President  Carnot  as  well,  while 
you  are  over  there?”  Without  hesitation,  as  though 

207 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


it  was  quite  a simple  everyday  matter,  I replied  that 
I saw  no  difficulty  whatever,  as  I had  many  influential  , 
friends  in  Paris.  “ Well,  then,  if  that’s  the  case,  and 
you  care  to,  you  might  try  to  get  some  others  as  well 
— M.  Eiffel,  De  Blowitz,  Caran  d’Ache,  Campbell 
Clarke ; they  would  all  interest  me,  and  I would 
like  some  sketches  of  them  as  well ! ” Of  course,  I 
agreed,  and  to  my  delight  he  wrote  out  a card  on 
which  was  stated  I was  authorised  to  represent  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette  in  Paris  for  the  next  few  weeks. 
This,  therefore,  was  the  first  literary  journalistic 
credential  I received. 

It  was  only  when  I got  outside  the  office  I began 
to  realise  the  difficulty  of  my  undertaking.  It  was 
not  only  the  fact  that  it  was  my  first  attempt  at 
interview  work,  but  what  bothered  me  was  how  I 
was  going  to  get  at  the  distinguished  men  whose 
names  had  been  given  me.  I began  to  feel  I had 
perhaps  been  somewhat  precipitate.  There  was  no 
certainty  that  my  friends  in  Paris  would  help  me. 
Of  course  I knew  if  I did  not  succeed  I was  under 
no  obligation  to  go  and  tell  Mr  Stead  I had  failed, 
or,  in  fact,  to  call  at  his  office  again,  but  the  idea 
of  not  being  successful  was  not  to  be  entertained 
for  a moment,  so  I started  for  Paris  with  the  firm 
conviction  in  my  mind  that  I was  going  to  do 
what  I had  undertaken,  and  as  it  turned  out  I 
accomplished  it  entirely  without  a hitch  from  start 
to  finish.  Although  scarcely  coming  within  the 
scope  of  this  narrative  of  my  Bohemian  Life  in 
London,  a brief  resume  of  it  may  be  of  interest. 
My  idea  was  to  make  the  sketch  whilst  having  the 
interview,  and  for  the  purpose  I had  got  a sketch 
book  of  special  shape  and  size  made  for  me. 

I soon  made  the  discovery  that  in  journalistic 
work  it  is  better  to  rely  on  one’s  own  initiative 
than  on  any  outside  assistance,  which,  more  often 
than  not,  is  but  of  hypocriphal  value,  so,  after 
waiting  for  several  days  for  introductions  which 

208 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


did  not  arrive,  I took  the  bull  by  the  horns  and 
wrote  personally  to  all  the  personages  I wanted 
to  interview,  and  in  every  case  I got  a favourable 
reply,  making  an  appointment. 

I remember  particularly  what  an  effect  the  arrival 
of  the  mounted  orderly  from  the  Elysee  with  a 
letter  for  me  produced  at  the  modest  hotel  in  the 
Rue  Pasquier  where  I was  staying. 

Having  succeeded  so  far,  it  was  now  up  to  me 
to  do  the  interviews  if  I could.  It  was  at  this 
juncture  that  I again  realised  the  advantage  I 
possessed  in  not  being  in  the  least  impressed  by 
pomp  and  circumstance.  When  I was  ushered 
with  much  ceremony  into  the  presence  of  the 
President  of  the  Republic,  I recollect  my  first 
impression  was  how  much  he  resembled  an  old 
uncle  of  mine.  This  was  sufficient  to  put  me  at 
once  at  my  ease,  so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  after  a 
time,  while  I was  making  my  sketch,  I ventured  to 
tell  him  of  the  likeness,  and  he  laughed  heartily. 

He  was  a man  of  stiff  and  impassive  demeanour, 
the  very  embodiment  of  dignity  and  self-conscious- 
ness, and  this  frigid  appearance  was  heightened 
by  the  closely  - buttoned  frock  coat,  stiff,  clerical- 
looking collar,  and  black  tie  which  completely  hid  his 
shirt  and  made  him  look  not  unlike  a prosperous 
undertaker.  My  unconventionality  seemed  to  have 
imparted  a touch  of  everyday  human  nature  to 
what  would  otherwise  have  been  but  a formal  and 
official  interview,  and  we  were  soon  chatting  together 
in  the  most  unrestrained  and  friendly  manner,  and 
when  I had  finished  my  work  he  asked  me  in  the 
most  cordial  way  if  I would  like  to  come  to  Madame 
Carnot’s  reception  at  the  Elysee  the  following 
evening.  Of  course  I accepted,  and  in  due  course 
the  mounted  orderly  again  rode  up  to  my  hotel 
with  an  official  invitation,  and,  needless  to  add,  I went. 

Some  of  my  artist  friends  — young  fellows  with 
no  respect  for  dignity — on  learning  of  the  honour 

209  O 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

conferred  on  me,  insisted  on  escorting  me  that 
night  to  the  entrance  of  the  Elys6e,  where,  with 
mock  deference,  and  much  to  the  great  amusement 
of  the  sentries  and  the  police  on  duty,  they  lined 
up  on  either  side  and  saluted  me  gravely  as  I 
passed  through  the  portal. 

I felt  somewhat  embarrassed  when  I found  myself 
inside  the  palace,  for  on  all  sides  were  resplendent 
uniforms  and  blazing  decorations,  whilst  I,  of  course, 
was  only  in  humble  evening  dress.  The  magnificent 
saloons  were  crowded,  and  the  gorgeous  toilets  of 
the  ladies  added  brilliance  to  the  scene.  I had 
always  heard  that  the  Presidential  receptions  were 
but  tame  and  bourgeois  affairs  as  compared  with 
those  at  the  Tuileries  during  the  Empire,  but  what 
I saw  around  me  was,  I thought,  certainly  not  lack- 
ing in  impressiveness,  although  it  was  perhaps  solely 
Republican,  and  the  majority  of  these  people  not  blue- 
blooded  aristocrats. 

I made  my  way  upstairs  slowly,  for  there  was  a 
big  crush,  to  where  the  President  and  Madame 
Carnot  received  their  guests  at  the  entrance  to  the 
salons , and  waited  till  my  name  was  announced. 
The  President,  who  was  merely  bowing  stiffly  and 
coldly  to  every  one,  was  graciously  pleased  to  extend 
his  hand  to  me  in  quite  genial  fashion  and  introduced 
me  to  Madame  Carnot  as  “l’artiste  peintre  de 
Londres.”  After  a word  of  welcome  from  the  lady 
I then  passed  on,  and  stood  at  the  back  watching 
the  arrival  of  the  guests. 

It  was  all  very  prim  and  formal,  as  may  be 
imagined,  and  after  a time  I found  it  somewhat 
dull,  as  I was  quite  alone,  and  in  it  but  not  of  it. 
So  after  about  an  hour,  when  I noticed  that  people 
were  taking  their  departure,  I did  likewise,  and 
was  not  sorry  when  I found  myself  outside  in 
my  familiar  Paris  again.  There  was,  to  my  mind 
something  depressing  in  the  world  of  diplomacy 
which  I had  just  visited  for  the  first  time. 

210 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


Things  are  very  much  changed  in  Paris  since 
then,  and  nowadays  it  is  as  difficult  for  a foreign 
correspondent  to  be  received  by  the  President  of 
the  Republic  — unless  he  has  good  influence  to 
back  him  up,  or  is  introduced  by  a personal  friend 
— as  it  is  to  get  into  the  presence  of  Royalty. 

General  Boulanger  I interviewed  at  the  very  zenith 
of  his  power  and  popularity.  I shall  never  forget 
that  memorable  night  when  the  result  of  the  election 
was  definitely  known.  He  was  dining  at  Durand’s 
at  the  corner  of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine,  and  one 
could  have  walked  down  the  Rue  Royale  over  the 
heads  of  the  people  who  were  waiting  for  their  newly 
found  idol  to  appear.  If  he  had  only  had  just  that 
little  spark  of  pluck  which  goes  to  make  a Napoleon 
or  a Cromwell,  he  could  have  gone  to  the  Elys6e 
then  and  there,  but  probably  there  passed  through 
his  mind  the  chance  of  an  over-zealous  sentry  and 
a sudden  ending  to  his  career,  so  he  missed  his  oppor- 
tunity and  never  got  the  chance  again.  His  house 
in  the  Rue  Dumont  d’Urville  was  always  thronged 
with  his  admirers  and  fortune-hunters,  who  would 
wait  for  hours  on  the  chance  of  an  interview. 

My  appointment  was  at  the  unearthly  hour  of 
8 o’clock  in  the  morning,  but  I was  advised  to  get 
there  much  earlier  than  that  if  I wanted  to  make 
sure  of  seeing  him. 

When  I saw  him  after  waiting  from  6 till  close 
on  9 o’clock,  instead  of  the  fine  dashing  cavalry 
officer  I had  expected  from  the  photographs  sold 
of  him  everywhere,  I found  an  elderly,  frock-coated 
gentleman  who  might  have  been  a prosperous 
merchant  or  the  director  of  a successful  trading 
company,  certainly  not  one’s  conception  of  a popular 
hero.  However,  there  was  a charm  in  his  manner 
which  was  particularly  winning  and  doubtless  ex- 
plained his  popularity.  He  received  me  in  so 
friendly  a fashion  that  I felt  one  could  not  help 
liking  him. 


21  i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I thought  I would  carry  out  my  plan  of  sketching 
and  interviewing  him  simultaneously.  “ I am  very 
much  occupied,”  he  said,  “ you  will  have  to  catch  me 
as  well  as  you  can,”  so  I dodged  about  the  room 
until  I found  a good  position  to  sketch  him  from. 
I noticed  certain  gestures  which  struck  me  as  being 
theatrical,  which  were  doubtless  calculated  to  impress 
me,  as,  for  instance,  he  opened  a letter,  read  it  intently, 
and  held  it  in  his  hand  as  though  deep  in  thought. 
Then,  as  though  he  had  taken  a sudden  resolve,  he 
tore  it  up  and  with  a deep-drawn  sigh  consigned 
it  to  the  wastepaper  basket.  Other  letters  that  he 
read  through  hastily,  appeared  to  cause  him  annoy- 
ance, but  all  seemed  to  me  to  be  done  for  effect.  He 
knew  I was  watching  him  every  moment. 

Afterwards,  taking  me  by  the  arm,  he  showed  me 
over  the  house,  which  was  practically  the  headquarters 
of  the  party,  and  I interviewed  him  whilst  we  walked 
round.  I recollect  how  many  photographs  of  him 
there  were,  in  all  poses  and  dress.  He  might  have 
been  a fashionable  beauty.  But  there  was  a 
reason  for  it  all.  His  dashing  appearance  on  his 
famous  black  charger  was  one  of  his  chief  assets. 
When  I came  away  after  spending  nearly  two  hours 
with  him  I felt  that  I had  really  done  a good  day’s 
work,  as  I had  made  quite  a lot  of  sketches,  and  had 
got  a long  and  interesting  interview. 

Monsieur  de  Blowitz,  the  celebrated  correspondent 
of  the  Times  in  Paris,  was  known  facetiously  as  the 
“ Friend  of  Emperors,”  for  he  was  said  to  be  on 
intimate  terms  with  all  the  crowned  heads  of 
Europe.  He  lived  in  the  Rue  de  Tilsitt  and 
received  me  in  the  most  extraordinary  attire 
imaginable.  It  was  a sort  of  compromise  between 
pyjamas  and  the  Turkish  national  costume,  and  of 
the  most  brilliant  red,  while  he  had  a black  fez  on 
his  scant  locks,  which  gave  him  a still  more  grotesque 
appearance.  He  was  a tiny  little  man,  inclined  to 
embonpoint , with  an  immense  head.  He  was  pleased 


YOU  WILL  HAVE  TO  CATCH  ME  AS  WELL  AS  YOU  CAN.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


to  let  me  sketch  him,  and  whilst  doing  so  I adroitly 
got,  without  his  realising  it,  the  replies  to  several 
questions  I had  written  in  my  sketch  book,  and  as 
he  talked  he  gradually  let  himself  go,  and  I found 
myself  writing  down  matters  of  so  important  a nature 
that  I wondered  what  he  would  say  if  he  found  I 
was  taking  notes  as  weli  as  sketching  him. 

When  I got  back  to  my  hotel  and  read  it  all 
over,  I came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  not 
be  fair  to  publish  it  without  his  sanction,  so  I went 
back  and  saw  him  the  following  day.  He  laughed 
heartily  at  my  ruse,  and  good-naturedly  edited  the 
interview  himself.  I may  add  that  when  this  was 
published,  it  caused  somewhat  of  a sensation,  as 
it  dealt  intimately  with  the  Parnell  question,  and 
was  referred  to  in  most  of  the  London  and  provincial 
papers. 

Monsieur  Eiffel  was  building  his  famous  tower 
then,  and  I interviewed  him  on  the  spot.  He  held 
Sunday  “ at  homes  ” on  the  works.  Every  week 
the  reception  platform  was  nearer  the  heavens,  and 
only  those  with  cast  iron  nerves  could  venture  up, 
for  the  lifts  were  not  then  installed. 

Caran  d’Ache,  the  famous  humorous  artist,  and 
Campbell  Clarke,  correspondent  of  the  Daily 
Telegraph , both  received  me  in  the  most  genial 
manner,  and  put  no  difficulties  in  the  way  of  my 
accomplishing  my  object.  In  fact,  I liked  the  work 
so  much,  and  found  it  so  pleasant,  that  I determined, 
should  it  be  accepted  by  the  Pall  Mall , to  devote 
my  time  to  it  in  the  intervals  of  black-and-white 
drawing  and  painting.  Well,  it  was  all  accepted, 
and  I remember  Mr  Stead  facetiously  remarked 
afterwards  that  I ought  to  consider  him  my  literary 
accoucheur.  This,  therefore,  was  the  commencement 
of  my  work  as  a scribe,  and  I never  had  cause  to 
regret  having  made  that  trip  to  Paris. 


213 


* 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


Artists’  rendezvous  in  the  Wood — Cheap  restaurants  in  the  West  End — 
Soho  in  those  days — Pagani’s — Pellegrini  and  the  Artists’  Room — 
Veglio’s — Reggiori’s — Gatti’s — The  Monico — Its  curious  history — 
The  cheapest  dinner  in  London — The  Cafe  Royal — Verrey’s — 
French  and  English  billiards  in  Windmill  Street — Music  halls — 
Our  Saturday  night’s  dissipations — “ Adventures”  with  the  girls — 
Mad  pranks — The  baked  potato  merchant — An  amusing  joke — The 
bewildered  girls — A curious  bet — The  wealthy  waiter  — “The 
Maiden’s  Prayer  ” — “ Regulars  ” — The  “ street  - walker  ” of 
those  days — Extraordinary  sights  in  the  West  End — An  amusing 
skit — John  Hollingshead’s  wit — Foreign  women  in  Regent  Street 
— The  “ last”  ’bus — I make  a conquest — Facetious  ’bus-drivers — 
Liquid  refreshment — Story  of  a “rum  and  milk” — Week-end 
boating — Painting  at  Cookham — Flirtation  on  the  Bridge — The 
boastful  Don  Juan  and  the  mysterious  female — A splendid  “ spoof” 
— A delightful  adventure — The  launch  party — Curious  denouement 
— Another  adventure  — Missing  the  last  train  — The  good 
Samaritans — LHncroyable. 


Although  there  were  a few  places  in  the  Wood 
where  one  occasionally  met  artists  of  an  evening, 
there  were  no  real  rendezvous  for  brothers  of  the 
brush  and  palette  up  there,  so  the  only  chance  of 
seeing  any  one  was  to  go  round  to  the  different 
studios  if  you  wanted  a yarn  and  a pipe.  It  was 
a poor  substitute  for  cafe  life,  as  may  be  imagined, 
and  it  also  had  the  tendency  to  encourage  one  to 
indulge  in  liquid  refreshment  of  a more  enlivening 
nature  than  coffee,  but  it  was  something  to  do  after 
dinner  if  one  hadn’t  got  a girl  to  meet,  and  one 
didn’t  want  to  play  billiards  or  cards.  Of  course 
there  was  the  Hogarth  Club  to  go  to  if  one  felt 
so  inclined,  but  to  go  down  West  seldom  occurred 
to  us,  for  unless  one  had  plenty  of  money  to  spend, 

214 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


or  friends  to  visit,  there  was  not  much  amusement 
in  a long  ’bus  ride  with  a possibility  of  having  to 
walk  back  again,  if  you  stayed  out  too  late,  for  a 
cab  home  was  a rare  luxury. 

There  were  not  many  restaurants  then  in  the 
West  End  where  young  fellows,  like  we  all  were 
then,  not  over-blessed  with  wealth,  could  dine  cheaply 
and  well.  Soho  was  practically  isolated ; although 
there  were  one  or  two  little  places  where  they 
gave  you  a dinner  for  is.  6d.  or  2s.,  there  was 
no  indication  whatever  that  it  would  ultimately 
develop  into  the  fashionable  Bohemian  quarter  it 
has  of  late  years.  Curiously  enough,  although  it 
has  been  stated  that  the  necessaries  of  life  have 
risen  in  price  beyond  all  reason  during  the  past 
twenty  - five  years,  living  seems  to  be  far  cheaper 
now  than  it  was  then.  Of  course,  I only  refer  to 
restaurant  life.  Perhaps  it  will  be  said  you  don’t 
get  such  good  quality ; that,  of  course,  is  a question 
into  which  I cannot  enter,  but  the  fact  remains 
that  one  can  get  a dinner  for  less  money  now 
than  you  could  then.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this 
satifactory  state  of  things  for  the  poor  Bohemian 
has  been  brought  about  by  competition,  for  where 
there  were  only  a few  cheap  restaurants  then,  there 
are  now  scores  existent,  and  others  springing  up 
everywhere  in  the  West  End,  and  only  waiting  to 
be  discovered  by  some  exploring  journalist  to  be 
made  popular. 

In  my  St  John’s  Wood  days,  perhaps  the  best 
known  of  the  Bohemian  dining  - places  was 
Pagani’s  in  Great  Portland  Street,  although  at 
that  time  it  was  quite  a small  and  insignificant 
little  place  compared  with  what  it  is  now.  It  was 
to  Pellegrini,  the  famous  caricaturist  of  Vanity 
Fair , that  the  restaurant  owed  its  initiation,  as  it 
were,  in  the  Bohemian  life,  and  he  practically  started 
its  reputation  for  being  quite  the  best  place  in  London 
for  Italian  cooking  and  wines. 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


In  those  far-off  days  the  restaurant  grew  not 
only  in  size,  but  in  popularity,  by  leaps  and  bounds, 
and  at  the  time  I first  knew  it,  one  saw  there  many 
of  the  most  distinguished  artists  and  musicians  in 
London. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Pellegrini  and  his 
friends  formed  the  well  - known  “ Artists’  Room,” 
which  was  a sort  of  club  where  they  used  to  meet, 
and  the  walls  to  this  day  testify  to  the  talent  that 
would  congregate  there,  for  they  are  covered  with 
sketches  signed  by  famous  names,  all  of  which  are 
made  on  the  walls  direct. 

Pagani’s  was  then  the  artistic  rendezvous  of 
London  Bohemia,  where  one  could  be  sure  of  a 
well-cooked  veal  cutlet  a la  Milanese  and  a flask 
of  excellent  chianti , and  it  has  maintained  its 
reputation  to  this  day  as  the  leading  Italian 
restaurant  in  the  metropolis. 

Another  place  where  we  would  go  when  we  wanted 
a change  was  Veglios  in  the  Euston  Road.  It  has 
long  ceased  to  exist,  but  in  those  days  it  was  also 
a great  place  of  meetings  for  artists.  It  was  largely 
frequented  by  the  Fitzroy  Square  division,  and  for 
a time  enjoyed  considerable  vogue,  probably  because 
you  got  dishes  there  you  could  not  find  on  the 
menus  elsewhere. 

Of  course  there  were  several  other  places,  Reggiori’s 
in  Chapel  Street,  Edgware  Road,  Gatti’s  under  the 
Arches,  and  Gatti’s  in  the  Adelaide  Gallery  off  the 
Strand.  But  the  Monico  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
important  of  the  popular  cafts  in  the  West  End. 
It  then  only  consisted  of  the  present  big  hall  and 
a billiard-room,  which  was  the  largest  in  London, 
with  twelve  tables,  and  had  only  been  opened  in 
1877.  It  is  said  that  it  stands  on  the  site  of  an 
old  inn  where  one  of  the  coaches  used  to  start  from 
formerly.  For  several  years  the  entrance  was 
through  a coal  - yard,  and  the  Monicos  had,  some- 
how, managed  to  rub  the  owner  the  wrong  way, 

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with  the  consequence  that  he  would  often  leave 
carts  blocking  the  entrance.  He  was,  of  course, 
free  to  do  as  he  pleased,  and  nothing  could  be 
said,  as  he  had  the  right  of  way,  but  it  was  very 
awkward  for  customers  having  frequently  to  push 
their  way  in  past  the  dirty  carts,  especially  on  a 
wet  night.  This  was  where  the  principal  entrance 
and  cafe  are  now.  It  is  difficult  to  realise  the 
change  that  has  been  made.  One  used  to  meet  at 
the  Monico  and  play  chess,  then  a very  popular 
game,  which  was  played  in  many  places  every 
evening. 

The  cheapest  dinner  in  London  was  at  a restaurant 
in  Arundel  Street.  I forget  how  many  courses  they 
gave  you,  but  I remember  it  included  half  a bottle 
of  claret,  a cup  of  coffee,  and  a liquor  of  brandy 
for  2s.  You  couldn’t  expect  a really  good  dinner 
like  that  for  less  anywhere,  but  we  couldn’t  always 
afford  2s.,  worse  luck,  so  it  was  only  now  and  then 
we  patronised  it.  Occasionally,  also,  we  might  go 
on  to  the  Cafe  Royal,  or  Verrey’s,  after  dinner, 
but  these  were  amongst  the  expensive  and  chic 
places  even  for  a humble  cup  of  coffee,  and  they 
were  not  over-lively  at  night. 

There  was  a very  large  billiard  establishment  in 
Windmill  Street  we  used  to  go  to  now  and  again, 
as  there  were  French  tables  there  also,  the  only 
ones  in  London,  but  the  establishment  was  tres  mal 
frequentee , and  rows  were  of  constant  occurrence. 
One  of  the  worst  fights  I ever  saw  took  place  in 
this  street,  and  one  of  the  men  died  afterwards,  I 
learnt.  At  Inman’s  in  Oxford  Street  and  Roberts’ 
in  Regent  Street  were  private  billiard-rooms  we 
sometimes  went  to. 

Music  halls  and,  still  less,  theatres  were  not  much 
in  our  line,  perhaps  because  we  didn’t  care  to  be 
cooped  up  all  the  evening,  but  one’s  plans  for 
recreation  were  dependent  on  the  ever  - present 
question  of  ready  cash,  so  one  had  to  be  careful 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


and  act  up  to  the  Russian  proverb — “ If  you  can’t 
get  meat,  you  must  be  content  with  soup.” 

Still,  there  were  times  when  we  broke  loose, 
damned  the  expense,  and  lived  at  the  rate  of 
^5,000  a year,  for  a couple  of  hours  or  so.  Saturday 
nights  were  usually  fixed  on  for  this  wild  dissipa- 
tion, if  one  may  so  call  our  mild  orgies.  If  one 
were  lucky  and  came  across  some  nice  girl  or  girls, 
who  were  not  averse  to  a bit  of  fun,  then  indeed 
we  did  enjoy  ourselves  ; but  it  was  fun  of  a character 
consistent  with  our  youth  and  boisterous  spirits,  and 
never  connected  with  drink  in  any  form,  for  the 
simple  reason  this  form  of  amusement  did  not 
appeal  to  any  of  us,  though  none  of  my  pals  at  the 
time  were  in  any  sense  teetotallers.  Mrs  Grundy, 
the  dear  old  thing,  might,  perhaps,  have  raised  her 
funny  eyebrows  if  she  had  heard  of  some  of  our 
escapades,  but,  after  all,  what  was  the  harm?  We 
were  all  of  us  bachelors,  and  if  a pretty  girl  who 
had  been  in  business  all  the  week  felt  lonely  and 
wanted  to  be  made  a fuss  of  over  the  week-end, 
what  business  was  it  of  anybody’s  ? — and  studio  walls 
told  no  tales,  fortunately.  Many  of  my  old  chums, 
staid  married  men  now,  who  may  perchance  read 
these  lines,  will  doubtless  recall  some  of  the 
delightful  “adventures”  we  all  had  together  in 
those  never-to-be-forgotten  days,  when  one  didn’t 
trouble  so  much  about  appearances  or  what  other 
people  thought. 

Whenever  I return  to  Paris  and  re-visit  some  of 
my  old  haunts,  I am  always  agreeably  surprised  to 
find  how  one  can  re-construct  the  scenes  of  one’s 
youth — to  use  a French  phrase,  and  if  one  has  not 
grown  too  fastidious  as  one  has  advanced  in  years, 
one  can  almost  imagine  oneself  a youngster  again, 
of  course  providing  you  have  anything  left  of  your 
youthful  temperament. 

It  is  quite  different  in  London,  perhaps  for  the 
reason  that  there  has  never  been  a Quartier  Latin 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


of  any  description  or  anything  resembling  it  over 
here.  Anyway,  the  change  that  the  past  twenty- 
five  years  have  brought  about  in  the  mode  of  living 
is  so  great  that  it  is  probably  no  exaggeration  to 
state  that  we  live  in  quite  a different  London,  and 
what  was  possible  in  the  days  of  which  I am  writing, 
would  be  considered  the  very  worst  of  bad  form 
nowadays,  whilst  I am  inclined  to  doubt  whether 
the  present  day  young  man  would  even  unbend  to 
the  extent  we  did. 

As  I write  this  I recall  one  Saturday  night  down 
West.  We  were  four  of  us,  all  men,  and  out  with 
the  avowed  intention  of  having,  with  luck,  a good 
time,  and  we  did,  for  we  all  managed  to  pair  off 
with  quite  nice  girls.  I remember  mine  was  par- 
ticularly good-looking.  During  the  evening  it  was 
suddenly  suggested  that  we  should  all  go  up  to 
the  studio  of  one  of  us  and  finish  with  a dance, 
and  so  forth.  No  sooner  said  than  done.  Hansoms 
were  requisitioned,  and  in  we  all  bundled.  As  we 
went  along  some  one  espied  a baked  potato  merchant, 
and  a brilliant  idea  occurred  to  one  of  the  girls. 
“ Why  not  have  a supper  as  well,  and  take  the 
man  and  his  oven  with  us?”  The  weird  notion 
was  at  once  adopted  and  cabs  stopped,  a bargain 
made  with  the  potato  merchant,  and  off  we  started 
again  midst  roars  of  laughter,  the  potato-oven  on 
its  truck,  fastened  to  the  back  of  a cab,  and  the 
man  hanging  on  next  to  the  cabby.  You  couldn’t 
do  anything  so  mad  as  that  nowadays  in  the 
electrically  illuminated  streets,  however  young  one 
might  be.  What  stupid  things  one  did  too,  just  to 
make  the  girls  laugh. 

I fancy  we  must  have  all  been  very  youthful  even 
for  our  age,  as  we  were  always  up  to  some  sort 
of  lark.  Can  one  imagine  fellows,  no  longer  lads, 
doing  anything  so  imbecile,  for  instance,  as  the 
following  ? 

One  fine  Saturday  afternoon  I was  having  a 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

stroll  with  a friend  when  we  espied  two  smart  girls 
coming  towards  us.  When  they  got  nearer  we  saw 
they  were  both  very  pretty,  and  I recognised  one 
as  an  acquaintance  of  mine  I hadn’t  met  for  some 
time.  We  stopped,  I introduced  my  pal,  and  we 
stood  chatting  for  a few  minutes ; then,  as  they  said 
they  had  somewhere  to  go,  we  left  them.  As  we 
walked  away,  my  companion  remarked  how  pleasant 
it  would  have  been  to  have  had  them  both  up  to 
tea  in  the  studio,  for,  as  he  rightly  said,  one  didn’t 
often  come  across  two  girls,  both  so  nice,  together. 
I agreed  with  him  and  said  that  if  we  had  thought 
of  it  we  might  have  invited  them  that  afternoon, 
but  it  was  too  late  now.  He  then  suggested  my 
fixing  something  of  the  sort  for  the  next  day,  as 
Sunday  was  generally  pretty  dull  if  you  had 
nothing  arranged  beforehand.  I said  I would,  when 
it  suddenly  struck  me  I hadn’t  got  my  friend’s 
address  to  send  her  a line,  as  I knew  she  had 
moved  since  I last  met  her.  “ How  stupid  of  me 
to  forget  to  ask  her  for  it.”  What  was  to  be  done  ? 

We  looked  back  ; they  were  already  far  away  in 
the  distance,  as  we  had  been  walking  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Then  we  saw  a ’bus  coming  along,  and 
the  idea  of  a funny  joke  occurred  to  us.  We 
couldn’t  very  well  get  in  to  it,  catch  them  up,  and 
explain  the  reason  for  our  afterthought,  that  would 
have  been  a bit  too  unblushing.  There  was  no 
time  to  lose  if  we  were  to  carry  out  the  fun  we 
had  in  our  minds,  so  we  jumped  inside  the  ’bus, 
and  in  due  course  passed  them,  without,  of  course, 
their  having  seen  us,  then  some  little  distance 
further  on,  where  the  road  made  a turn,  we  got 
down  and  started  re-tracing  our  steps  so  as  to 
meet  them  as  they  came  along.  It  all  went  as  we 
arranged.  We  pretended  to  be  strolling  along  arm- 
in-arm,  engaged  in  deep  and  earnest  conversation. 

The  look  of  blank  amazement  on  the  two  girls 
faces  as  they  saw  us  coming  towards  them  after 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


leaving  us  a half  a mile  back  some  minutes 
previously,  can  be  imagined.  My  friend  and  I 
started  with  well  - feigned  surprise,  and  gave  an 
exclamation  of  pleasure  at  meeting  them  again  so 
soon,  and  stopped  to  shake  hands.  The  girl  I 
knew  stared  at  me  as  though  she  thought  I was 
a ghost,  then  faltered  out,  “Am  I dreaming,  didn’t 
we  leave  you  both  down  the  road  ten  minutes 
ago?”  “Of  course,  you  did,”  I answered  gaily. 
“Well,  how  is  it  we  meet  again  here,  when  you 
were  going  the  other  way?”  I couldn’t  keep  my 
countenance  any  longer  and  burst  into  laughter, 
in  which  they  both  joined  heartily  when  they  heard 
how  the  mystery  of  our  being  in  two  places  at 
once  had  been  accomplished.  “ Fancy  taking  all 
that  trouble  just  for  the  sake  of  having  a joke  on 
us,”  was  the  girls’  comment.  I didn’t  think  it 
necessary  to  enlighten  her  as  to  the  real  reason 
for  our  energy,  but  as  it  turned  out  we  were  well 
repaid  for  it,  and  the  tea  party  came  off,  and  we 
spent  a very  delightful  afternoon  with  them. 

Here’s  another  idiotic  practical  joke.  Once,  at  the 
Monico,  I think  it  was,  I forget  how  it  came  about, 
but  one  of  us  made  a bet  that  he  would  eat  cream- 
cakes  all  through  his  dinner  in  lieu  of  bread.  It 
doesn’t  sound  very  formidable,  but  chocolate  dclairs, 
for  instance,  with  boeuf  saute  wants  some  determina- 
tion to  tackle,  and  entire  absence  of  palate,  while 
most  people  could  not  manage  meringue  cl  la  creme 
with  stewed  mutton,  but  he  won  his  bet,  and  wasn’t 
ill  afterwards  either.  The  look  on  the  face  of  the 
waiter,  when  he  saw  what  was  being  accomplished, 
was  a study  in  itself ; he  must  have  thought  we  were 
escaped  lunatics  ! 

By  the  way,  mentioning  waiters,  there  was  one 
whom  we  usually  patronised.  He  was  reputedly 
quite  rich,  and  all  made  out  of  his  tips ; at  last  he 
was  reported  as  going  to  retire  to  a property  he 
had  bought  in  Switzerland.  I asked  him  one  day 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


how  he  had  managed  to  amass  so  much  wealth. 
His  reply  was  succinct.  “ Between  ze  gentleman 
who  give  me  twopence,  and  ze  fool  who  give  me 
fourpence,  I am  able  to  retire  from  ze  business.” 
Those  must  have  been  palmy  days  for  waiters, 
judging  from  the  number  who  started  on  their  own 
account,  and  have  made  little  reputations  for  them- 
selves since. 

Of  course,  it  didn’t  always  happen  that  we 
returned  accompagnts  on  those  Saturday  nights,  and 
if  we  were  alone,  we  would  endeavour  to  catch  the 
last  ’bus  from  Piccadilly  Circus.  This  was  facetiously 
known  as  “ The  Maiden’s  Prayer,”  by  reason  of  the 
number  of  ladies  who  had  had  no  luck  during  the 
evening,  who  usually  returned  to  their  homes  in 
the  Wood  by  it,  and  any  one  who  was  on  the  look- 
out for  a cheap  “ adventure  ” was  pretty  certain  to 
find  it  in  this  particular  ’bus.  After  a time  one 
almost  got  to  know  the  “regulars,”  with  their  dyed 
hair,  by  sight,  and  to  look  on  them  as  neighbours 
living  in  the  same  village.  If  it  had  turned  out  a 
wet  night,  it  was  almost  pitiful  to  see  them  get  in 
with  their  tawdry  finery  all  bedraggled  and  mud- 
spattered,  and  the  look  of  despondency  on  their 
painted  and  powdered  faces,  for  Saturday  was  rent 
day  as  a rule,  and  there  wouldn’t  be  much  chance 
of  doing  anything  on  a Sunday. 

Somehow,  and  almost  mysteriously,  the  entire  class 
of  street-walker  of  those  days  has  disappeared, 
fortunately,  for  they  were  not  pleasant  objects  as 
one  saw  them  parading  the  West  End,  and  I often 
wondered  what  the  police  was  about  to  let  them 
offer  themselves  in  such  brazen  fashion  in  the  most 
important  quarter  of  the  metropolis.  It  used  to 
amaze  foreigners,  the  sights  to  be  witnessed  of  an 
afternoon  and  evening  in  Regent  Street  and  round 
Piccadilly  Circus,  and  more  especially  after  all  he 
had  heard  of  the  “ goody-goodiness  ” of  London  as 
compared  with  Paris. 


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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


I remember  an  awfully  funny  sketch  a newly- 
arrived  French  artist  friend  of  mine  made,  which 
was  suggested  by  this  extraordinary  apathy  on  the 
part  of  the  authorities.  It  represented  the  corner 
by  Swan  and  Edgar’s  in  the  height  of  the  season, 
and  on  a fine  afternoon.  There  was  the  usual 
crowd  of  well-dressed,  respectable  people,  top-hatted, 
frock-coated  paterfamilias  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
smart  military  men  accompanying  fashionable  ladies, 
young  girls,  carriages  driving  past,  and  so  forth, 
whilst  amongst  the  throng  were  numerous  street 
women  strolling  about  in  a state  of  complete 
nudity,  yet  without  attracting  any  notice  from  the 
well-dressed  people  round  them ! 

It  was  John  Hoilingshead,  I believe,  who  made  the 
witty  remark  that  at  this  particular  corner  one  had 
the  best  opportunity  for  observing  the  staple  industry 
of  the  neighbourhood. 

The  number  of  foreign  women  about  was  not  the 
least  remarkable  of  the  curious  state  of  affairs,  in  fact 
one  part  of  Regent  Street  was  for  a long  time  known 
as  the  “ Calais  side,”  and  most  of  the  creatures  who 
patrolled  it  were  so  abandoned  looking  that  one 
wondered  how  they  ever  managed  to  earn  even  a 
crust  unless  they  picked  up  some  drunken  fool  late 
at  night.  Of  course,  to  young  fellows  like  ourselves, 
this  phase  of  West  End  life  offered  no  attraction,  and 
one  simply  passed  them  by  without  a glance,  unless  it 
happened  to  be  something  exceptionally  scandalous 
in  appearance  ; but  I remember  one  night  something 
funny  happening  to  me. 

There  was  always  a big  crowd  waiting  for  the  last 
’buses,  and  on  this  occasion  I was  standing  on  the 
kerb  with  a friend  when  he  remarked  to  me  with  a 
laugh  that  I had  “ made  a conquest.”  Looking 
round  in  the  direction  he  indicated,  I saw  a big,  fat 
woman  of  about  forty,  who,  as  soon  as  she  caught  my 
eye,  began  to  ogle  me  tenderly.  She  was  evidently 
foreign,  and  must  have  weighed  17  stone  if  she 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


weighed  a pound,  and  looked  a positive  mound  of 
flabby  flesh.  The  humour  of  the  situation  tickled 
me  to  such  an  extent  that  I must  have  sniggered  at 
her,  when,  to  my  surprise,  she  evidently  misunder- 
stood my  intention,  and  gradually  edged  her  way 
towards  me,  with  the  clear  purpose  of  making  the 
first  advance.  I then  noticed  she  had  a brown  paper 
parcel  in  her  hand.  “Go  on,  Jules,  go  in  and  win 
her,  my  boy.  Don’t  let  me  stand  in  your  way,”  said 
my  pal,  jocularly,  as  the  lady  adroitly  succeeded 
in  placing  herself  alongside  me,  without  attracting 
notice  from  the  bystanders.  Just  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing,  I thought  I would  egg  her  on  to  see  what 
would  happen,  so  I sidled  a little  closer  to  her  and 
waited,  though  it  was  with  difficulty  I kept  my 
countenance. 

She  was  considerably  taller  than  I,  and  her 
elephantine  proportions  seemed  overpowering. 
Suddenly  turning  her  head  she  whispered  in 
English,  for  she  was  a German  evidently,  " I have 
taken  great  fancy  to  you.  Will  you  come  home  with 
me  and  be  my  lover  ? ” I made  no  reply.  An  idea 
had  occurred  to  me.  Thinking,  perhaps,  I had  not 
heard  her,  she  repeated  her  remark,  this  time  1 
turned  to  her,  and,  to  her  surprise,  made  a most 
voluble  statement  in  gibberish,  and  looked  towards 
my  friend  as  though  asking  him  to  act  as  interpreter. 
He  knew  my  love  of  a practical  joke,  so  at  once 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  it,  and  told  the  lady  I was 
a distinguished  foreigner  just  arrived  in  England, 
and,  as  I could  not  speak  English,  he  would  be 
pleased  to  translate  to  me  anything  she  wished  to 
say.  What  was  it  she  wanted  of  me  ? Though 
taken  aback,  she  was  nothing  daunted,  and  reiterated 
her  amatory  sentiments,  which  were  duly  translated 
in  gibberish  to  me.  I shrugged  my  shoulders  and 
gesticulated  as  though  deprecating  the  honour. 

“Tell  him,”  she  added,  “I  think  him  very  nice 
boy  and  I have  great  fancy  to  him  taken,  and  if 

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MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


he  will  come  with  me,  I will  make  him  nice 
presents.”  Again  this  was  translated ; my  friend 
and  I were  having,  apparently,  a heated  discussion 
on  the  advisability  of  my  accepting  when  the  lady 
again  chipped  in,  and  said,  “You  tell  him  I have  a 
nice  lobster  in  this  parcel  and  he  shall  it  with  me 
share,  if  he  will  come  along.  It  is  not  often  I take 
fancy  so.”  At  this  moment,  I saw  our  ’bus  coming 
up,  and  as  I didn’t  want  to  walk  home,  I made  signs 
to  my  friend  that  we  had  better  be  off.  “ I regret, 
madam,”  he  said  to  my  admirer,  “ I can’t  persuade 
him  to  accept  your  offer.  He  says  he  is  very  sorry, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  disappointments  of  his  life,  but 
lobster  never  agrees  with  him,”  and  then  he  added, 
“It  does  with  me  though,  won’t  I do  as  well?” 
“ No,”  she  answered,  almost  bursting  into  tears,  and, 
seizing  my  hard,  squeezed  it  so  hard  that  I thought 
she  must  be  a professional  strong  woman.  “If  I 
can’t  have  ’im,  I will  have  nobody.  I will  go  ’ome 
and  eat  mine  lobster  to  mineself.” 

The  ’bus-drivers,  especially  on  this  route,  always 
struck  me  as  being  characters  in  their  way,  and  the 
last  journey  at  night  appeared  to  develop  their  sense 
of  humour  somehow.  There  was  always  a lot  of 
chaff  going  on  between  the  jehus  of  the  rival  ’buses, 
which  afforded  great  amusement  to  the  passengers 
as  a rule,  whilst  any  individual  who  invited  sarcasm 
and  was  not  gifted  with  ready  repartee  generally 
came  off  badly. 

One  man  I often  noted  as  being  particularly  quaint 
in  his  remarks ; at  last  he  got  quite  a reputation  for 
his  impromptu  wit,  and  one  would  almost  wait  for 
it.  One  soaking  wet  night,  when  the  rain  was  simply 
pouring  down,  as  he  was  waiting  at  the  corner  of 
Piccadilly  Circus  for  his  ’bus  to  fill  up,  and  calling 
out  his  destination,  as  was  usual  for  drivers  to  do 
in  those  days,  his  insistence  on  the  fact  that  it  was 
going  to  the  “ Zoo-logical  Gardings  and  Regents 
Pawk,”  as  though  extra  inducement  to  intending 

225  P 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


passengers  on  such  a night,  was,  I thought,  the  very 
essence  of  humour. 

Although,  as  I have  said,  none  of  our  fun  ever 
consisted  of  indulgment  in  liquid  refreshments,  there 
were  times  when  conviviality  demanded  a certain 
departure  from  this  abstemiousness,  but  I don’t  think 
our  bill  for  whisky  and  brandy  ever  amounted  to 
much  at  the  end  of  the  year.  There  was  no  call 
to  drown  “ dull  care,”  as  few  of  us  had  any  then. 
I suppose  it  was  that  it  didn’t  matter  so  much  if 
you  were  hard  up  if  you  had  no  particular  responsi- 
bilities. I recollect  in  this  connection  something 
rather  amusing  that  happened  one  morning  at  our 
place. 

We  had  had  rather  a festive  night,  and  had  not 
gone  to  bed  until  the  early  hours.  In  order  not  to 
break  up  the  party,  we  had  persuaded  one  of  our 
friends  who  lived  out  of  town  to  miss  his  last  train 
and  sleep  in  the  spare  bedroom  which  was  in  the 
front  of  the  house.  The  following  morning  I went 
up  about  nine  o’clock  to  wake  him,  when,  to  my 
surprise,  I found  him  already  up  and  dressed,  and  on 
expressing  my  astonishment  at  his  being  so  matinal, 
considering  the  time  we  had  got  to  bed,  he  told  me 
he  could  not  sleep  after  8 o’clock,  and,  on  looking 
out  of  the  window,  he  could  not  resist  the  chance  of 
a rum-and-milk  “ doing  nothing,”  as  he  put  it,  at  the 
“ Eyre  Arms  ” over  the  way  ; it  seemed  a pity  to 
miss  such  an  opportunity,  so  he  had  dressed  and 
gone  out  to  get  it.  “ This  was,”  he  said,  “ the  first 
time  he  had  ever  slept  opposite  a public  house,”  so 
it  explained  his  unwonted  energy.  I had  an  idea, 
however,  that  perhaps  it  was  the  pretty  barmaid  over 
there  who  also  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

We  went  a good  deal  up  the  river  during  the 
summer — not  that  we  were  devotees  to  boating,  for  I 
fear  none  of  my  chums  were  in  any  sense  athletes, 
but  it  was  a good  excuse  to  get  away  from  town 
on  Sunday,  and,  as  a friend  of  mine  had  a house- 

226 


PERHAPS  IT  WAS  THE  PRETTY  BARMAID  OVER  THERE. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


boat  near  Cookham,  we  generally  went  to  see  him. 
Th6Ye  is  no  more  delightful  spot  anywhere  on 
the  river  than  here,  and  it  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the 
few  places  within  easy  distance  of  London  that 
has  not  b$en  spoilt  by  the  day  tripper,  for  the 
village  is  very  little  changed  from  what  it  was  in 
Fred  Walker’s  time.  On  one  occasion  I spent  a 
month  down  there  with  an  artist  friend.  It  was 
in  the  early  summer,  and  we  enjoyed  ourselves 
immensely,  and  painted,  and  boated,  and  bathed 
to  our  hearts’  content,  and  went  to  bed  early  and 
slept  like  tops,  as  there  was  not  much  in  the  shape 
of  dissipation  in  the  quiet  village,  as  may  be  imagined. 
We  lived  in  a tiny  cottage  close  to  the  common,  and 
of  an  evening  after  supper  would  light  our  pipes 
and  stroll  up  to  the  bridge,  where  there  was  always 
the  chance  of  a little  flirtation  of  a very  mild  descrip- 
tion with  the  local  lasses,  as  there  were  really  some 
very  pretty  girls  there,  mostly  the  daughters  of 
tradesmen  of  the  village. 

• To  them,  the  advent  of  spring  meant  emancipa- 
tion after  the  dreary  winter  months,  and  with  the 
warm  days  and  the  boating  season  came  the  smart 
London  boys  in  flannels  and  blazers  to  talk  to 
and  cheer  them  up  after  the  long  dark  nights. 
Unfortunately,  however,  there  were  never  enough 
pretty  girls  to  go  round,  and  you  were  lucky  if 
you  came  across  one  who  was  unattached. 

You  certainly  wanted  something  in  petticoats  to 
stroll  with  through  the  fields  by  the  side  of  the 
river  in  the  lovely  summer  evenings.  One  could 
commune  with  Nature  much  better,  I always  thought, 
if  you  had  your  arm  round  a dear  little  girl’s  waist, 
and  her  fluffy  hair  blowing  into  your  face.  Without 
this  companionship  sylvan  life  offered  but  little 
attraction  for  me,  at  any  rate. 

Talking  of  the  girls  reminds  me  of  a “spoof” 
my  friend  and  I played  on  an  artist  who  was 
living  in  the  village  when  we  were  there.  He  was 

227 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


quite  a little  chap,  not  bad  - looking,  but  awfully 
conceited,  especially  where  girls  were  concerned  ; in 
fact,  he  fancied  that  no  one  knew  what  a pretty 
girl  was  except  himself,  and  he  was  constantly 
airing  his  opinions  on  the  subject.  He  used  to 
brag  that  he  knew  every  good  - looking  girl  for 
miles  round,  and  that  they  had  all  offered  to  sit 
for  him.  Often  would  he  tell  us  of  his  amorous 
escapades,  probably  to  make  us  envy  him  his  good 
fortune,  but  we  had  our  doubts  about  them. 

This  was  gradually  getting  on  our  nerves  when 
I thought  of  a practical  joke  to  play  on  him,  and 
when  I told  my  friend  of  it,  he  thought  it  was 
good  enough  to  carry  out  at  once.  So  we  wrote 
him  a letter  on  cheap  notepaper  in  an  illiterate 
sort  of  feminine  writing,  telling  him  that  the  writer 
would  wait  for  him  at  9 o’clock  the  next  evening 
outside  his  house,  as  she  so  much  wanted  to  know 
him,  or  words  to  that  effect,  and  we  signed  it  with 
an  illegible  signature.  It  looked  just  the  kind  of 
letter  a country  girl  would  write.  When  we  knew 
he  was  out  painting,  I went  and  pushed  the  letter 
under  his  door  so  that  we  could  be  perfectly  sure 
it  reached  him. 

We  generally  met  during  the  afternoon,  and  this 
time  we  made  a point  of  it,  and  on  separating, 
asked  him  if  he  would  come  in  and  have  supper 
with  us  the  next  evening.  “ Thanks,  very  much,” 
he  replied,  “but  I can’t.  I’m  engaged  to-morrow 
night.  Got  something  very  special  on.  An  awfully 
pretty  girl  to  meet.”  “You  are  a Don  Juan,”  I 
said  chaffingly.  “ Where  on  earth  do  you  find 
them  all?  We  can’t  come  across  anything.”  “Oh,” 
he  replied  airily,  “there’s  a lot  of  it  about.  I get 
more  than  I want,  and  find  it  a bit  of  a nuisance 
knowing  so  many.”  “ Appointment  near  here  ? ” 
asked  my  friend  tentatively.  In  an  outburst  of 
swagger,  for  he  was  evidently  very  pleased  with 
himself,  he  told  us  he  didn’t  believe  in  going  a 

228 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


long  way  to  meet  a girl ; if  she  wanted  to  see 
him,  she  must  come  to  him,  so  the  rendezvous 
was  close  to  his  place.  So  far,  the  “ spoof ” 

had  come  off  even  better  than  we  expected ; it 
only  remained  now  to  carry  it  out  completely. 
Next  day  I managed  to  borrow  from  our  land- 
lady, who  was  a good  sort,  her  Sunday  skirt, 

coat,  and  hat,  as  well  as  something  that  would 
answer  the  purpose  of  a thick  veil.  At  half  past 
eight  I dressed  myself  up  in  them.  It  is  perhaps 
necessary  to  mention  that  in  those  days  I was 
fairly  slim,  my  chest  hadn’t  commenced  to  “slip 
down  ” as  it  has  since,  so  when  my  toilet  was 

finished,  I really  believe  that  I didn’t  look  too 

masculine.  My  friend,  who  helped  me  to  disguise 
myself,  was  convulsed  with  laughter  as  he  surveyed 
me  when  I was  completed.  He  said  I had  better 
be  careful  not  to  be  seen,  or  I might  get  more 
than  I bargained  for.  Our  victim  lived  only  a 
short  distance  from  us,  so  there  was  not  much 
fear  of  meeting  any  one ; moreover,  it  was  quite 
dark.  We  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  the  house 
without  our  landlady  seeing  us,  and  made  our  way 
stealthily  to  the  trysting-place.  As  the  clock  struck 
nine  I took  my  place  under  some  trees  opposite 
where  he  lodged.  My  friend  hid  himself  a little 
way  off  where  he  could  watch  the  result.  No  one 
was  about,  so  I ran  no  risk  of  being  noticed. 
There  was  a light  in  his  room,  and  I could  see 
him  plainly  pacing  about  impatiently.  The  window 
was  wide  open,  so  I gave  a significant  cough  to 
attract  his  attention ; he  looked  out  immediately, 
and,  seeing  me,  put  on  his  hat  and  hurried  to 
where  I stood. 

Coming  up  to  me,  he  peered  hard  at  me  to  get 
a glimpse  of  my  face,  but  my  thick  veil  effectively 
baffled  his  curiosity,  so  he  seized  me  by  the  hand 
and  exclaimed,  “ I received  your  letter,  little  girl  ” 
(he  didn’t  reach  much  above  my  shoulder).  “It  was 

229 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


too  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  want  to  know  me,  and 
to  write.  Tell  me,  where  have  we  met,  and  what 
is  your  name?”  I whispered  softly,  “Presently, 
dear.”  This  seemed  to  embolden  him,  and,  putting 
his  arm  through  mine,  he  said,  “Let’s  go  for  a 
walk,  I know  a lovely  quiet  place  not  far  from 
here  where  we  shall  be  away  from  everybody  and 
you  can  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  and  let  me  look 
at  your  pretty  face.  I am  simply  dying  to  know 
who  you  are.  Come  along,  it  is  just  the  very 
evening  to  be  together,  darling.” 

I pretended  to  hesitate,  and  murmured  very  softly, 
“ I don’t  think  I ought  to.”  Then  he  tried  to  put 
his  arm  round  my  waist,  and  draw  me  towards 
him  and  kiss  me,  but  I resisted  gently.  “ Not  yet, 
sweetheart,”  I whispered.  As  may  be  imagined, 
I had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  prevent  myself  from 
giggling,  as  he  was  so  full  of  conceit,  thinking  I 
was  really  smitten  with  him,  for  he  took  it  all 
for  granted,  and  that  I was  a simple  village  maiden 
ready  to  fall  into  his  arms.  There  was  a momentary 
pause  ; the  little  fellow  seemed  nonplussed.  I could 
see  my  friend  behind  the  trees  close  by  making 
signs  to  me  to  let  my  Adonis  embrace  me  and  have 
done  with  it.  This  finished  me.  I couldn’t  keep  my 
countenance  any  longer.  With  a peal  of  laughter 
I whipped  up  my  skirt,  and,  showing  my  trousered 
legs,  I ran  off,  whilst  my  friend  emerged  from  his 
hiding-place  and  joined  me.  Next  day  our  victim 
came  round  and  tried  to  brazen  it  out,  saying,  with 
a feeble  attempt  at  a laugh,  that  “ he  knew  who 
it  was  all  the  time.”  But  we  heard  no  more  of 
his  escapades  with  the  fair  sex  after  this  little  take- 
down. 

On  another  occasion  when  I was  staying  at 
Cookham  I had  a delightful  “ adventure  ” which  I 
have  always  remembered,  more  especially  as  some- 
thing out  of  the  way  occurred  in  connection  with 
it.  I had  a fancy  to  put  one  of  my  sentimental 

230 


- 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

ideas  on  a large  canvas,  and  with  this  laudable 
object  in  view  had  evolved  a subject  of  a time- 
worn nature,  which  I was  hoping  to  treat  on 
somewhat  original  lines.  It  was  necessary  in  order 
to  carry  it  out  with  any  chance  of  success  to  find 
a girl  of  the  type  I had  in  mind  and  induce  her 
to  sit  for  me,  as  I wanted  to  paint  the  entire  picture 
in  situ  with  my  model  against  the  actual  back- 
ground. One  does  not  come  across  one’s  ideal 
just  when  one  is  seeking  for  it,  as  I have  already 
' pointed  out,  and  I had  been  looking  around  in 
vain  when  a bit  of  luck  came  my  way.  Some 
friends  of  mine  had  taken  a house  near  the  village  for 
the  season.  They  were  very  hospitable  people,  and 
I was  often  invited  there.  They  had  two  daughters, 
and  a son  about  my  age,  and  there  were  usually  some 
visitors  staying  with  them,  so  it  made  a cheery  party. 
One  day  I was  told  that  a school  friend  of  one 
of  the  girls,  who  lived  at  Marlow,  was  coming  over 
to  tennis,  and  she  turned  out  to  be  exactly  the 
type  of  English  girl  I had  been  looking  for.  Tall, 
fair,  and  delightfully  slim,  and  with  a complexion 
like  a peach,  a real  river  girl,  the  sort  to  make 
you  fall  madly  in  love  with  in  a few  hours.  I 
was,  as  I have  said,  on  most  intimate  terms  with 
the  family,  and  dropped  in  whenever  I liked.  It 
struck  me  that,  perhaps,  I might  be  able  to  induce 
her,  therefore,  to  sit  for  the  picture,  so  I managed 
to  have  a walk  with  her  round  the  garden  after 
tea,  and  I told  her  all  about  it.  To  my  delight, 
she  was  quite  interested,  and  promised  to  write 
and  let  me  know  when  she  could  manage  it.  I 
may  mention  that  I had  already  discovered  the 
very  place  to  paint  the  picture  in,  a charming  and 
secluded  backwater  just  below  the  Quarry  Woods, 
and  so  it  was  settled  that  she  should  walk  along 
the  towing  path  on  the  day  she  appointed  and 
meet  me  at  a spot  she  would  tell  me  of  when  she 
wrote.  She  enjoined  me  to  secrecy,  saying  that 

231 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


“ she  knew  her  people  would  say  it  was  very  wrong 
of  her  to  meet  me  at  all,  but,  of  course,  no  one 
but  ourselves  need  know  of  it,  so  where  was  the 
harm?”  With  which  argument  I was,  of  course, 
in  perfect  agreement. 

When  we  rejoined  the  family  circle,  I remember 
that,  although  I felt  elated  at  my  good  fortune, 
I had  the  sentiment  of  being  somewhat  of  a con- 
spirator. “ How  lovely  your  roses  look,”  remarked 
my  fair  companion  casually  to  our  hostess,  as  she 
let  herself  drop  in  a wicker  chair,  as  though  to 
explain  our  absence.  I glanced  towards  her.  She 
looked  the  very  embodiment  of  girlish  ingenuousness. 

A couple  of  days  later  I received  a letter  from 
her  fixing  a rendezvous.  So  I got  a boat,  put 
my  canvas  and  easel  and  painting  things  in  it, 
and  rowed  up  to  meet  her.  I shall  never  forget 
my  impression  as  I saw  her  coming  towards  me 
along  the  river  bank.  She  was  dressed  entirely  in 
white,  a quite  simple  river  frock,  but  its  effect  in 
the  afternoon  sunshine  was  ethereal.  She  looked 
a dream  of  a beautiful  English  girl. 

I will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  delightful  times 
we  spent  together  after  this  meeting.  They  were 
idyllic,  and  I don’t  remember  ever  having  painted 
en  plein  air  under  more  poetic  conditions.  I have 
since  those  far-off  days  often  passed  the  spot  where 
we  used  to  moor  the  boat,  and  abandon  ourselves 
to  the  long  afternoon  of  undisturbed  happiness  in 
the  cool  shade  of  the  overhanging  trees  till  the 
lengthening  shadows  warned  us  it  was  time  to  be 
returning ; then,  I remember,  with  a heavy  heart, 

I used  to  pack  up  my  paraphernalia,  and  row  her 
back  to  the  spot  where  we  had  met.  I can  see 
her  now  in  my  mind’s  eye,  crossing  the  meadow, 
turning  round  now  and  again  to  wave  me  yet 
another  and  another  farewell  until  she  was  out  of 
sight. 

Those  were,  indeed,  never-to-be-forgotten  hours, 
232 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


and  with  all  the  charm  of  them  was  that  they  were 
so  greatly  in  contrast  to  my  studio  life,  for  whilst 
there  was  the  fascination  of  our  meetings  being  of  a 
clandestine  nature,  there  was  really  nothing  in  them 
to  which  even  that  hard  taskmistress,  Mrs  Grundy, 
could  have  taken  exception.  It  was  a delightful 
experience,  in  the  course  of  which  I managed  some- 
how to  paint  a picture  without  her  people  ever 
getting  to  know  of  it.  One  thing,  however,  is  certain, 
and  that  is  that  she  never  looked  on  our  escapade 
as  anything  more  than  a harmless  summer  flirtation, 
for  she  was  little  more  than  a girl,  and  I was  quite 
a young  man  without  any  serious  thoughts  at  all  in 
my  head,  at  the  time,  on  matrimonial  subjects. 

After  we  had  been  meeting  thus  for  a week  or  so 
without  having,  as  I thought,  excited  any  suspicion 
amongst  her  people  of  what  was  going  on  between 
us,  there  occurred  the  curious  incident  I alluded  to 
at  the  commencement  of  this  little  story.  I forgot 
to  mention  that  we  had  occasionally  met  at  our 
mutual  friend’s  house  since  that  memorable  after- 
noon when  I had  first  been  introduced  to  her,  but, 
of  course,  she  gave  no  sign  of  undue  friendship 
towards  me.  I was  Mr  Price  to  her,  and  she  was 
Miss  So-and-so  to  me. 

On  the  occasion  to  which  I am  about  to  refer,  she 
had  not  been  able  to  meet  me  for  several  days,  and 
she  had  written  to  say  she  would  come  and  sit  for 
me  the  following  afternoon,  and  how  much  she  was 
looking  forward  to  a lovely  time  together.  That 
evening  one  of  the  young  fellows  who  used  to  be 
always  in  and  out  of  our  friend’s  house  came  to 
my  lodgings  to  invite  me  to  go  with  them  the 
following  day  on  a launch  party  up  the  river.  He 
told  me  that  it  was  going  to  be  a very  jolly  outing, 
as  they  were  to  picnic  somewhere  on  the  way,  have 
tea  on  board,  and  finish  up  with  a dinner  on  return- 
ing home. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  imagine  a pleasanter 
233 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


excursion.  The  weather  was  delightful  at  the  time 
and  looked  like  lasting,  so  that  the  invitation  was 
indeed  an  alluring  one.  Then  he  told  me  who  was 
going  to  be  of  the  party.  “ All  the  usual  crowd 
of  nice  boys  and  girls,  and,  of  course,”  he  added, 
“ Amy,”  which,  we  will  say,  was  my  girl’s  name. 
For  a moment  I thought  he  knew  something, 
and  that  he  mentioned  her  name  purposely.  I 
felt  my  back  hair  stiffening,  but  almost  instantly 
I realised  that  it  was  over-sensitiveness  that  made 
me  imagine  an  affront  in  what  was  probably  only 
an  innocent  statement,  so  I made  no  remark.  I 
began  to  wonder  whether  this  sudden  picnic  would 
not  have  altered  her  arrangements  to  meet  me  in 
spite  of  her  letter,  so  I thought  I had  better  be 
on  the  safe  side,  as  I should  have  liked  to  go  on 
the  launch,  especially  if  she  were  going  to  be  there 
also.  I replied,  therefore,  that  “ I might  have  to 
go  to  town  the  next  day  for  a few  hours,  so  if  I 
might  leave  it  open  I would  come  if  I could.”  He 
said  that  he  was  fixing  it  all  up  himself,  and  that 
they  were  starting  from  the  bridge  at  such  and 
such  a time,  and  that  if  I could  manage  to  join 
them  they  would  be  delighted,  so  we  left  it  at  that. 

I almost  expected  to  get  a note  from  Amy  the 
next  morning  to  put  off  her  appointment,  but  there 
was  none,  so  I decided  not  to  go  on  the  launch 
and  to  chance  her  being  at  our  usual  rendezvous. 
To  my  delight  she  was  there,  and  we  passed  several 
hours  together.  The  picnic  had  not  appealed  to 
her,  and  she  preferred  to  come  and  sit  for  me,  so 
had  made  some  excuse  to  get  out  of  going. 

When  at  last  it  was  time  to  be  thinking  of  packing 
up,  the  sun  was  nearly  setting.  The  entrance  to  the 
backwater  in  which  we  were  esconced  was  masked, 
fortunately,  as  it  turned  out,  by  overhanging  trees, 
for  just  as  I was  pushing  out  into  the  main  stream, 
and  had  got  the  bows  of  the  boat  clear,  we  were 
startled  by  the  whistle  of  a large  steam  launch 

234 


. 


. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


coming  rapidly  towards  us.  There  were  loud  cries 
of  warning,  and  only  just  in  time  I managed  by  a 
great  effort  to  stop  my  boat  from  being  run  down 
and  probably  cut  in  half. 

As  the  launch  swished  past,  I heard  a well-known 
voice  call  out,  “Isn’t  that  Jules  in  the  skiff?”  To 
which  some  one  else  replied,  “ It  is  like  him,  but 
he’s  gone  up  to  town  to-day,  so  it  can’t  be.”  Amy, 
luckily,  was  hidden  by  the  bushes,  or  the  incident 
would  have  been  very  awkward  for  both  of  us. 

The  following  day  I ran  across  the  man  who  had 
come  to  me  with  the  invitation.  “You  missed  a 
splendid  time,  yesterday,”  he  told  me.  “We  had  a 
lovely  day  and  glorious  weather.  They  were  all 
very  disappointed  you  could  not  turn  up,”  and  then, 
as  though  to  rub  it  in  still  more,  he  added,  “and, 
Amy  especially  asked  after  you.”  “ Was  she  there 
then?”  I asked  nonchalantly.  “Of  course,  she 
was,  the  party  wouldn’t  have  been  complete  with- 
out her,”  was  his  unabashed  reply. 

I recall  another  experience  of  my  boating  days, 
which  ended  in  a curious  manner. 

One  Sunday  a friend  had  lent  me  his  punt  and 
I had  taken  a sweetly  pretty  girl  out  for  the  day. 
We  were  very  great  pals,  and  had  spent  some  very 
good  times  together.  We  started  from  Wey bridge 
and  made  a lovely  trip  up  the  River  Wey,  which 
was  as  secluded  a spot  as  one  could  desire.  It 
was  like  an  exploration  journey,  we  thought.  I 
remember  we  took  a hamper  with  us,  and  had  a 
little  picnic  all  to  ourselves,  so  we  passed  one  of 
the  most  joyous  days  imaginable.  The  weather 
was  perfect,  and  I had  a delightful  companion,  so 
what  more  could  a fellow  want?  Everything  was 
so  idyllic  that  we  were  quite  loth  to  return  to  the 
prosaic  surroundings  of  the  main  stream,  and  it  was 
only  when  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen  that 
we  decided  it  was  time  to  think  of  the  train.  But 
we  had  reckoned  without  taking  mishaps  into  con- 

235 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


sideration.  The  River  Wey  is  a tortuous  and  in- 
significant stream,  and  all  of  a sudden  we  got  stuck 
right  across  it  and  in  a most  awkward  position. 
Of  course,  there  was  no  risk,  as  there  are  only  a 
few  inches  of  water,  but  it  took  me  some  little 
time  to  get  clear,  as  my  companion  was  more 
ornament  than  use  in  a punt,  and  when  at  last  we 
got  to  Wey  bridge  it  was  quite  dark  and  much 
later  than  we  had  intended. 

We  lost  no  time  getting  to  the  station,  when,  to 
the  horror  of  my  companion,  we  learned  that  the 
last  train  for  London  had  gone,  and  the  telegraph 
office  was  closed.  I shall  never  forget  the  look 
of  consternation  on  her  pretty  face,  for  I forgot 
to  mention  she  was  a very  nice,  quiet  girl,  who 
lived  at  home  with  her  people.  We  stared  at  each 
other  in  blank  dismay.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
The  porter  to  whom  we  addressed  ourselves  was 
evidently  the  village  idiot  before  he  took  up  his 
station  job,  judging  from  the  view  he  took  of  our 
predicament,  and  he  seemed  to  think  it  rather  a 
good  joke  our  being  so  worried  about  it ; perhaps 
to  him  it  was  not  an  unusual  thing  for  young 
couples  to  lose  their  last  train  home — anyhow,  all 
he  could  suggest  was  that  there  was  an  inn  close 
by  and  that  we  had  “better  make  a night  of  it” 
— or  words  to  that  effect — “ since  there  was  no 
chance  of  our  getting  back  to  town  unless  we 
caught  the  mail  at  3 o’clock  in  the  morning.” 

We  left  him  and  wandered  down  the  road,  and 
out  in  the  darkness  my  companion  completely  broke 
down  and  sobbed  like  a child.  What  would  her 
people  think?  They  were  always  a bit  suspicious 
of  me,  and  she  wouldn’t  have  had  this  happen  for 
worlds ; they  would  be  waiting  up  all  night  for  her, 
and  so  forth.  I tried  my  best  to  console  her. 
“Accidents  would  happen,”  I told  her,  but  I felt 
quite  nonplussed,  for  I hadn’t  thought  she  would 
take  it  so  seriously.  Then  I remembered  the 

236 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

early  morning  train.  If  we  managed  to  catch  that, 
it  would  get  us  to  town  at  an  unearthly  hour, 
it  is  true,  but  better  than  staying  away  all  night. 
She  eagerly  jumped  at  this  suggestion,  but  the 
question  was,  where  to  go  until  it  was  time  to  get 
back  to  the  station,  as  it  was  only  io  o’clock  then. 

We  couldn’t  very  well  walk  about  all  night.  An 
idea  occurred  to  me,  and  I went  to  the  hotel  close 
by,  and  saw  the  proprietor,  to  whom  I explained 
our  predicament.  He  looked,  and  was,  a real  good 
fellow.  He  called  his  wife,  a kind,  motherly  person, 
and  she  was  most  sympathetic  when  she  saw  my 
pretty  companion’s  tear-stained  face.  But  they 
were  closing  for  the  night,  she  said.  She  and  her 
husband  went  aside  and  had  a talk  together,  and 
then  told  us  that  they  were  going  to  bed,  but  would 
let  us  stay  in  their  sitting-room  until  it  was  time  to 
go  to  the  station,  and  would  trust  to  us  to  put  out 
the  gas  and  shut  the  outer  door  quietly,  when  we 
left.  Such  kindness  and  confidence,  on  the  part 
of  people  who  did  not  even  know  who  we  were, 
was  so  unexpected,  that  we  neither  of  us  knew  how 
sufficiently  to  express  our  thanks. 

We  were  shown  into  a cosy  parlour,  and  the 
landlord  said  he  was  going  to  leave  us  a bite  of 
something  on  the  sideboard,  in  case  we  felt  hungry 
before  we  started,  and  to  cap  it  all,  refused  to  take 
a penny  piece  for  what  they  were  doing  for  us, 
as  it  was  after  closing  time,  they  said.  They  were, 
indeed,  good  Samaritans.  After  they  had  bade  us 
good  - night,  and  we  found  ourselves  alone,  my 
companion  threw  her  arms  round  me,  and  kissed 
me  for  very  joy  of  our  having  found  a way  out  of 
the  predicament.  We  had  nearly  five  hours  before 
us,  and  our  only  fear  now  was  that  we  might  fall 
asleep,  and  not  wake  up  in  time,  so  we  determined 
to  take  no  risks,  and  although  we  were  both  very  tired 
we  managed  to  keep  awake  somehow,  and  caught  the 
train,  so  it  all  ended  without  further  misadventure. 

237 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


The  funniest  part  of  it  all,  what  in  France  would 
be  ycelpt  Vincroyable , was  that  we  sat  there  all  those 
hours,  in  separate  armchairs,  until  it  was  time  to  go, 
for  all  the  world  like  two  Sunday-school  children. 
How  this  was  I don’t  quite  know,  but  so  far  as  I 
was  concerned,  such  a thing  as  love-making  never 
entered  my  head.  I remember  I said  afterwards 
that  it  was  her  fault,  but  she  did  not  agree.  She 
had  put  it  down,  she  told  me,  to  my  nervousness 
about  not  missing  the  train.  For  a long  time  after 
I pondered  over  her  remark,  and  even  now  I recall 
that  night  at  Weybridge  with  a twinge  of  vain 
regret. 


CONCLUSION 


Uneventful  times  in  the  studio — “Black  and  white”  artists  and 
“ stock v drawings — My  fondness  for  France — Le  Guilvinec — 
I paint  a religious  subject — Cheapness  of  living  in  the  village — 
Ending  of  my  Bohemian  days — What  brought  about  the  change 
— The  Wiggins  Expedition  to  Northern  Siberia — Mr  Ingram 
suggests  my  accompanying  it  as  his  “special  artist” — Sir 
Frederick  Leighton’s  friendship — Mr  Ingram’s  generous  policy 
— I start  on  my  big  journey  through  the  Arctic  regions — 
Siberia,  Mongolia,  and  China — My  eighteen  months’  absence 
from  England  — I return  to  London  — Enough  of  “roughing 
it”  for  the  time — I move  from  St  John’s  Wood  into  the  West 
End. 

As  may  be  imagined,  studio  life,  whilst  occasionally 
providing  incidents  of  a sufficiently  interesting 
character  to  bear  recounting,  is  not  entirely  made 
up  of  “events,”  therefore  in  endeavouring  to  recall 
the  happenings  of  the  years  of  which  I have  been 
writing,  it  is  obvious  that  there  were  times  when 
for  months  all  was  singularly  colourless.  Episodes, 
even  of  a tender  nature,  have  always  seemed  to 
me  to  come  about  in  cycles.  I was,  as  it  turned 
out,  on  the  eve  of  one  of  the  big  “ events  ” of  my 
career,  as  will  be  seen,  and  for  the  moment  I was 
marking  time,  as  it  were. 

Meanwhile  I was  not  idle  in  my  studio.  A 
“black  and  white”  artist  could,  in  those  days, 
generally  manage  to  fill  in  his  time.  “ Stock  ” 
drawings — i.e.,  not  for  immediate  publication — were 
in  demand,  and  if  I struck  a good  subject  it  was 
pretty  nearly  certain  that  the  Illustrated  would  take 
it.  The  “stock”  drawing  is,  alas,  practically  a thing 
of  the  past  in  these  days  of  photography. 

239 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


My  fondness  for  France  and  anything  French 
generally  lured  me  across  the  Channel  for  my 
summer  outing.  A little  place  called  Le  Guilvinec, 
on  the  coast  of  Finistere,  attracted  me  just  then,  and 
strange  as  it  may  have  seemed  to  those  who  were 
interested  in  my  work,  and  who  knew  my  tempera- 
ment, I painted  a religious  subject  there  called  “ The 
Viatique,”  and  the  village  priest  was  so  interested 
in  it  that  he  actually  posed  for  me  on  the  sea- 
shore, so  there  was  no  difficulty  in  getting  my 
other  models. 

I exhibited  this  picture  at  the  Royal  Academy 
and  the  Salon , and  it  eventually  received  a Medal 
at  the  Paris  Exhibition  in  1900.  I always  recollect 
Le  Guilvinec  as  the  cheapest  place  to  live  in  I ever 
struck.  They  charged  me  four  francs  a day  en 
pension , which  included  excellent  white  and  red  wine 
and  coffee  and  cognac  after  lunch  and  dinner.  Fresh 
sardines  were  a standing  dish,  and  langoustes  were 
so  plentiful  that  one  could  have  them  every  day. 
I don’t  suppose  that  in  these  motor  days  any  place 
like  this  exists  anywhere  at  anything  like  the  price. 

I now  come  to  the  period  which  I have  always 
considered  practically  marked  the  conclusion  of  my 
real  Bohemian  days  in  London.  Although  the 
bachelor  artist  is  always  more  or  less  a Bohemian, 
in  my  case  at  this  particular  stage  there  was,  as 
will  be  seen,  a big  break  in  the  continuity  of  my 
career  as  a painter,  that  so  completely  severed  my 
connection  with  studio  life  that  when  I returned  to 
it  after  an  absence  of  nearly  eighteen  months  it  was 
to  settle  down  in  the  West  End  under  quite  different 
conditions.  I will,  however,  briefly  narrate  what 
brought  about  this  change. 

The  celebrated  voyage  of  Captain  Wiggins  in 
1887,  when  he  successfully  accomplished  the  feat 
of  navigating  a steamer  (the  Phoenix)  across  the 
Kara  Sea  and  up  the  River  Yenisei  to  the  city  of 
Yeniseisk,  is  too  well  remembered  for  it  to  be 

240 


PAINTED  A RELIGIOUS  SUBJECT  THERE  CALLED  ‘THE  VIATIQUE.’ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


necessary  for  me  to  recapitulate  an  exploit  which 
was  destined  to  become  historic,  solving  as  it  did 
the  much-vexed  question  of  the  practicability  of 
establishing  commercial  relations  between  England 
and  Siberia  via  the  Arctic  Ocean  and  the  Kara 
Sea. 

This  successful  expedition,  opening  up  such 
immense  possibilities,  naturally  encouraged  its 
financial  promoters  to  follow  it  up  by  another  and 
much  more  important  one.  Towards  the  end  of 
July  in  the  following  year,  therefore,  the  Labrador , 
a powerful  wooden  steamer  specially  built  for 
Arctic  work,  was  despatched  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Yenisei  with  a cargo  of  “all  sorts”  with  which  to 
try  the  Siberian  market ; the  Phoenix , which  had 
been  laid  up  for  the  winter  at  Yeniseisk,  being  com- 
missioned to  proceed  down  the  river  and  fetch  back 
the  cargo  brought  out  by  the  Labrador , the  latter 
vessel  being  too  large  to  be  able  to  get  such  a 
distance  from  the  estuary.  For  all  this  special 
permission  had  naturally  to  be  got  from  the  Russian 
Government ; but  so  far  from  making  objections  or 
putting  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  scheme,  the 
officials,  advised,  of  course,  from  headquarters,  lent 
every  assistance  in  their  power  and  showed  a most 
friendly  spirit. 

Through  a diversity  of  causes,  into  which  it  is 
not  necessary  to  enter  here,  the  expedition  failed 
to  accomplish  its  purpose,  and  the  Labrador 
returned  to  England  without  having  crossed  the 
Kara  Sea  at  all.  An  ordinary  man  would  have 
been  discouraged,  at  any  rate  for  a time,  by  such  a 
failure  ; but  Wiggins  was  not  of  that  stuff.  Nothing 
daunted, he  at  once  began  trying  to  raise  “the  sinews 
of  war  ” for  a fresh  expedition,  and  was  so  successful 
(such  confidence  had  his  friends  in  him),  that  the 
following  year  the  Labrador  once  again  started  for 
the  far  north-east,  but  only  to  meet  with  another 
failure,  though  this  time  the  failure,  it  was  proved 

241  Q 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 

afterwards,  could  have  been  easily  averted.  In  fact, 
so  conclusively  was  this  proved,  that,  emboldened 
with  the  knowledge  of  how  near  it  had  been  to 
being  a success,  a syndicate  of  rich  and  influential 
London  men  was  without  difficulty  got  together, 
and  it  was  at  once  decided  that  two  ships  should 
be  sent  out  the  following  year,  and  that  everything 
possible  should  be  done  to  ensure  success.  This  time 
there  were  no  half-hearted  measures  ; money  was 
forthcoming,  and  with  it  a renewed  enthusiasm  in 
the  scheme  which,  I may  add  parenthetically,  helped 
not  a little  to  bring  about  its  eventually  satisfactory 
result ; this,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  expedi- 
tion started  handicapped  by  the  untoward  absence 
(owing  to  his  having  met  with  shipwreck  on  his  way 
to  join  us)  of  Captain  Wiggins,  the  leading  spirit  of 
the  project. 

Talking  about  Russia  one  morning  with  Mr  Ingram 
at  the  office  of  the  Illustrated  London  News , he 
suddenly  suggested  my  going  out  as  their  “special 
artist  ” with  this  expedition.  The  love  of  travel 
and  the  spirit  of  adventure  are  so  strong  in  me, 
that,  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  I eagerly 
caught  at  the  idea ; in  fact,  had  he  proposed  my 
riding  across  the  Sahara  on  a bicycle,  I should 
probably  have  jumped  at  it  with  just  as  much 
alacrity. 

Well,  to  cut  a long  story  short,  after  a lot  of 
correspondence  had  passed  between  us,  the  “ Anglo- 
Siberian  Trading  Syndicate”  agreed  to  take  me, 
subject  to  certain  restrictions  as  to  publication  of 
sketches  and  matter  relating  to  the  expedition,  and 
to  land  me  eventually,  if  all  went  well,  at  the  city 
of  Yeniseisk,  in  the  heart  of  Siberia. 

Sir  Frederick  Leighton  proved  himself  an  invalu- 
able friend  at  this  juncture,  as  there  was  some  diffi- 
culty in  a press-man  entering  Russia,  as  it  were, 
by  the  back  - door.  He  interceded  personally  on 
my  behalf  with  Sir  Robert  Morier,  our  Ambassador 

242 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  LONDON 


in  St  Petersburg,  so  I had  no  difficulty  in  getting 
my  passport  from  the  Russian  Government. 

On  my  taking  a map  of  my  route  down  to  the 
office,  and  asking  Mr  Ingram  where  I was  to  go  if 
I ever  found  myself  there,  “You  can  go  wherever 
you  like,  so  long  as  you  send  us  plenty  of  interest- 
ing sketches  for  the  paper,”  was  his  generous  reply. 
With  liberty,  therefore,  to  roam  all  over  the  world, 
so  to  speak,  and  with  unlimited  time  and  plenty 
of  means  at  my  disposal,  I started  on  a journey 
which  kept  me  away  from  England,  as  I have  said, 
nearly  eighteen  months,  and  during  the  course  of 
which  I traversed  the  whole  of  Siberia  from  north 
to  south,  Mongolia,  and  China. 

In  the  wildest  dreams  of  my  youth  I could  not 
have  imagined  a more  wonderful  journey. 

This  practically  ended  my  Bohemian  days  in 
London,  for  on  my  return  to  London,  after  so  long 
an  absence,  I found,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
that  my  ideas  were  much  changed,  and  that  somehow 
the  free-and-easy  life  of  St  John’s  Wood  no  longer 
offered  the  same  attraction  to  me  as  of  old,  perhaps 
because  I had  had  enough  of  roughing  it  for  the 
time.  Anyhow,  my  tenancy  at  No.  3 Blenheim  Place 
having  expired,  I thought  I wrould  try  what  living 
under  less  “artistic”  conditions  meant,  so  decided 
to  move  into  the  West  End,  and  took  a small  studio 
and  flat  in  Glasshouse  Street. 

I well  recollect  the  curious  impression  I had  when, 
on  the  day  after  moving  into  my  new  quarters,  I 
found  myself  in  Piccadilly  Circus  at  10  o’clock  in  the 
morning.  It  was  practically  a new  world  I found 
myself  in  as  compared  with  the  rural  quietude  of 
the  Wood,  and  I realised  how  completely  I had 
severed  with  my  old  Bohemian  life  in  London. 


243 


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